It's Been a Long Time. I Know...

Today's blog entry comes straight from the my bathroom. I know you probably don't really want to know that, and perhaps I shouldn't reveal such things about myself, but there you have it. I don't usually take the computer to the bathroom, but today I was researching something when nature called so I took the laptop with me and then was struck by the need to write before I made it back to the couch.

As you may or may not noticed, it has been an extremely long time since I wrote a blog entry. Some people might appreciate this, but I imagine most of you have been in the depths of depression over missing my musings so I hope this cheers each and every one of you up to see me writing once again.

I have been keeping a journal since I was 10 years old and my dad gave me a blue book with the word "Journal" written across the front in fancy gold script. I still have this book. In the ensuing years I have filled countless numbers of other notebooks in all shapes, sizes, designs and quality of binding. I don't know what it is about all those empty notebooks I have collected over the years which has prompted me to fill their pages over and over again. Perhaps there is a part of me which has just enough ego to feel that I need to leave my imprint on the world via my humble writings. Sometimes these notebooks have been an avenue to dream about my future, vent my frustrations, share funny stories or preserve a written record of my experiences, trials, accomplishments and failures for future generations.

After all of these years, I really don't know why, my writing hand, in an accident and did not have use of my hand for several weeks. After only a day or two I felt like I was suffocating. This had been the first time in my life when I had been prevented from writing and it was then that I came to realize how vital to my existence these frequent scrawlings had become in my life. In short time, I began the arduous task of trying to write with my left hand. This was a slow and difficult task, but one that I could not live without under these circumstances.

When I was in the 6th grade, my homeroom teacher, Mrs. Osborne, read The Diary of Anne Frank aloud to our class. I would have been about the same age as Anne was when she wrote in her diary during those months in the secret annex before being discovered by the Nazis. It was then that I realized how the humble scribbles of a young girl, no matter how obscure or insignificant her life might seem, could have a profound affect on the future generations who might read her words.

Young Anne, who had also been given her first diary by her own father, had never imagined that her schoolgirl writings would ever be published for millions through out the world to read. I do not imagine, not do I necessarily want my journals to ever be published for all the world to read. Yet somehow, Anne's example only gave me a stronger desire to keep writing over the years for whatever end.

A year or two ago I attended a talk given by historian David McCullough where the author spoke about the importance of history. In particular, he briefly touched on the importance of the personal journals of the common folk and how often the records of the regular, unrecognized, average citizens are all the information historians have to go on to reconstruct the past. Furthermore, he went on to say that if you want to be famous in the future, keep a journal and then donate it to a historical library in your area because so few people keep journals these days that your record may be the only record left behind of your generation.

I have heard some people suggest that one should omit the dark times, adversity, failures and challenges from our personal journal entries and that we should instead only include the more positive parts of our lives. It saddens me that people would feel this way. What a disservice we do the future generations by not allowing them an inner glimpse of the challenges we have faced and how we have dealt with our problems. Who knows...perhaps someone down the road will one day be faced with similar challenges and benefit by our experience.

Years ago I was thinking about my ancestors and what they might think about me if they were watching me today. I began thinking about all of the things in my life which might be seen as failures or disappointments to the. Would they be critical of how my life had turned out? Would they judge me harshly for not being more capable, successful, or valiant? I worried that they might see me as a disappointment in the family and that perhaps I did not deserve to be among their ranks. Then I was reminded of my grandmother and her family.

My grandmother had a brother named Mansel who contracted consumption while living in Mexico City in 1920. After he became ill, he boarded a train in Mexico City and headed home. He was met at the train station in San Antonio by a family member and then traveled by car the 50 miles or so to the family home in Nixon, Texas. The family was quarantined for the duration of his illness. No one was allowed to enter or leave the house. Neighbors had to leave groceries or other provisions outside the home for the family to retrieve once the visitor had left. One other brother, John, also became ill with consumption, but survived. Mansel eventually died of the disease.

I am told that a body infected by consumption, or Tuberculosis as we know it today, would remain contagious for up to 75 years after the host died. This was definitely the believe in Nixon, Texas at the time of Mansel's death. There could be no public funeral. The family was left to bury the body with the help of a man in town who had survived his own bought with the dreaded disease. Everything in the house, every book, blanket, article of clothing, stick of furniture...absolutely everything in the house had to be taken outside in the yard and burned. Thus, the family not only lost a young son, but every material possession as well.

Mansel died many decades before I was born, yet the affect of his young life cut short in such a tragic manner was felt in the family for many years to come. My own father was named John Mansel after these two brothers touched by this dreaded disease. Throughout my life I have heard stories of Mansel and, without knowing all of the details, understood that his death had left a deep scar in those in the family who had suffered his loss.

It was while remembering this story and pondering what my ancestors might think of me that I had an epiphany. I thought of my grandmother and her brother who had died as a young adult and the pain of losing all the family's material possessions at the same time. My grandmother bore children during the deprivations Great Depression and raised them during World War II, another time of scarcity. She was never wealthy. At best, she was middle class.

My mind began to wander as I recounted all the other experiences of what I knew of the rest of the family. Then it hit me. They were probably not as critical of me for my shortcomings. They understood my struggles and had empathy for me because they had also had struggles of their own. They understood loss, grief, unmet expectations, poverty, fear, loneliness and just about any other period of adversity. If it had not been for the stories handed down from generation to generation, I might never have understood this.

Just as I am typing this, the following showed up on my Facebook news feed:

"Storytelling is the world's oldest profession, and it's how we motivate others, how we inspire others, how we educate others. It's how we learn about or world."

-- Bran Ferren, co-founder & chief creative officer, Applied Minds

A part of me is horrified whenever people tell me they do not and have never kept a journal. It is sad to me to think that they will not leave a written record of their lives so that future generations will know that they were once here, who they were, and what wisdom or other gifts they had to offer the world. Another part of me is even more horrified when I find myself going lengthy periods of time without writing regularly. It always makes me stop and re-evaluate what is going on in my life which has made me avoid this usually frequent practice.

When I started writing this blog, I had imagined that writing in the more formal and public setting of a blog might force me to write more finished pieces. Obviously this hasn't happened. I do not believe in New Year's resolutions for the simple reason that most people quit after a short period of time, but if I were to make a New Year's resolution, posting blog entries on a more consistent basis might be one resolution I would make.

Or perhaps I should just make the habit of taking the computer with me into the bathroom and writing a brief entry whenever nature calls. Perhaps you don't want to hear about that either...

Remebering Pearsall, Texas

One of the things I appreciate the most about growing up in the South was being raised amongst some of the best storytellers in the world. People who do not have this privilege are really robbed of a tremendous heritage. There is a reason so many of the world's greatest such as Eudora Welty, Harper Lee,Truman Capote, Flannery O'Connor and so many other writers come from the South.

Rumor has it that back in the day, before the South had air conditioning or color television, folks would congregate on the front porch, drink sweet tea and tell stories by the hours. Many of my fondest childhood memories are not far different from this.

My grandparents lived on the main stretch of road going into town from the highway. The traffic flowed day and night and on many occasions we would sit on the front porch after dinner, watch the cars go buy, and listen to the adults reminisce about what we kids referred to as the old timey days. The family had lived in the small town of Pearsall, Texas, some 50 miles south of San Antonio, as far back as anyone could remember.

Our family was acquainted with a good number of people whose heritage in the area extended as far back as ours. There were so many names mentioned throughout several lifetimes of stories, which I can still recall to this day even though we are now separated by decades and hundreds of miles. I came to know childhood friends of both my father and grandfather through tales and personal meetings.

As a child, I walked the same streets of atleast three generations before me so that the sandy, red dirt of Frio County, Texas became a part of me, and I a part of it. The local businesses we frequented were owned and operated by lifelong friends of the family. The sapphire and diamond ring I purchased with the money i was given as gifts when I graduated from high school was purchased from a jeweler in Pearsall, as had been the tradition. My school clothes every year came from the local dress shop of another Martha, and woman who had who had been a classmate of my father's when he was young. There was a memorial stained glass window at the Methodist church which was bought and paid for by atleast on of our relations years before I was born. When country crooner George Strait hit it big playing his guitar on the radio, locals, who remembered him from his youth in town, still referred to him as "that Strait boy" and probably still do to this day, even though he is old enough to be a grandfather.

My own grandfather, born in 1900, had never known another town as his home. He had been a lifelong member of the local Baptist church and Masonic lodge. When he died, at the age of 85, the gentleman, and fellow Mason, who conducted his graveside service was exactly one year older and had literally known my grandfather his entire life. And, i must mention, still spoke of him as an honorable person, which I consider to be amongst the greatest accomplishments.

Dad was born in 1932, grew up during the Depression and World War II, and used to say his family was so poor back in the day that they had to eat butter instead of margarine. Unlike today, when margarine first came on the market it was more expensive than butter, came white in color and was accompanied with a packet of yellow coloring which was mixed in at home to give it the yellow appearance. My dad's family, who could not afford such a luxury, had to rely on butter churned from milk from the family cow.

There were two enormous pecan trees in my grandparent's front yard. We freely ate whatever pecans we cared to pick up off the ground and shell ourselves. My uncle was a rancher and farmer and gave us a free calf every year as well as an abundant supply of peanuts, watermelon, corn and cantaloupe. It would be many years later that I would come to realize what a luxury this had been when I had to actually purchase these favorite foods from the local grocery store. To this day, it pains me to actually have to pay good money for any of these goods which were so readily available, and most importantly, free to harvest with my bare hands.

When my father died, some eleven years ago, he was buried in the family plot next to several generations of his own family. His funeral was attended by many who had also known him his entire life, and some who had known the family even longer. Several attendees were from families who had been acquainted with my own family for just as many generations as were buried in the family plot.

I live in a different world than the one in which my father, grandfather and great-grandfather were raised. People don't stay put in one place long enough to put down deep roots like they once did. My generation is much more mobile. We think nothing of moving 1,000 miles across country for no other reason than a change of scenery or a new job. We are not connected to the land like those before us once were. While my grandfather was born, raised and died in the same town, my father's generation eventually left to make their homes in nearby cities and towns. My generation of cousins are far flung across the country from Connecticut to California. Instead of congregating on the front porch after dinner to watch the cars go by and tell tales late into dusk, we communicate through the internet and are all friends on Facebook.

The last generation of my family to remain in Pearsall died during my senior year of high school. This was a traumatic time for all of us, as it was not just the passing of our relations from this life to the next, but it was very much the passing of an era, a changing of hands from one generation to the next . Suddenly, for the first time in generations, we had no reason to go back to the place which had been the center of our family for so many decades. Generally, the passing from one phase of life to the next is a gradual process, often as easily to detect as paint drying or grass growing. For me, the door slammed shut with a thunderous thud.

My grandparent's house, which had been like a second home to me practically every weekend, holiday, and summer of my youth, and the surrounding yard where my cousins and I played countless hours on end, is now the parking lot of the local McDonald's, with, as one of my cousins said, "no sign that children once played there."

Sitting in the car, after the last family funeral of that year, my aunt turned to me and said, with tremendous sadness and longing for the past, "Our roots run deep in Pearsall." And that they did.

I Joined the Gym Today. Yeah Really.

I joined the gym today. And I am celebrating by sitting on the couch and writing about how I joined the gym and am sitting on the couch writing about it instead of going to the gym. I promise I will go later. Really. Just as soon as I finish writing this blog entry. And maybe after my nap.

So I noticed the other day that the Fancy Gym by my house is having a special where they are waiving the activation fees for a limited time. I did some quick math and figured out that with the fees waived, the gym membership is really quite a good deal so I went ahead and signed up online, because that's how I shop these days (see prior post about online shopping). I say I joined the Fancy Gym because there are two gyms close to my house. The Fancy one and the Not-So-Fancy Gym. I used to be a member of the Not-So-fancy Gym. It was okay. It covered what I needed for a pretty cheap price, but it was a little bit out of the way and the hours weren't as good as the Fancy Gym.

The Fancy Gym has a few extras like more locations, a sauna, spin and yoga classes etc, whereas the Not-So-Fancy Gym catered to the gym goer just looking for the basics like weights, treadmills, stationary bikes, ellipticals and some other things I never ventured near so I can't really tell you what they were. Hence, the Not-So-Fancy Gym came with a thrifty price, and who doesn't like a bargain? However, as I stated earlier, it was not as conveniently located and the price between the two is maybe $10/month difference so I figured why not splurge a little and join a gym I will actually attend?

As some of you know, I like to ride my bike. I am training for a century (100 miles) sometime next spring. So far I have pedaled a mere metric century (60 miles) so I figured I had better start some sort of real training program before next year so I don't have to suffer the embarrassment of taking the sag van the last 40 miles to the finish line.

I have liked riding bikes ever since I was a little kid. I don't know why. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that I have worn glasses since 3rd grade so I never really enjoyed sports that involved a ball. Sooner or later ball sports involved getting hit by a ball, which is bad news for a kid with glasses who would rather be sitting on the sidelines reading a book instead of getting hit with a ball in P.E.class. The other kids didn't particularly appreciate me playing ball sports anyway because whenever a ball came my way, instead of actually catching, hitting, or kicking it, I ran from it. Less pain that way for me. The other kids seemed to have a problem with my technique for some reason. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that me running from the ball usually meant if the ball came my way too many times, our team wasn't going to be winning any games. Apparently this sort of thing is frowned upon in sports.

The good thing about cycling is that there are no balls involved. Hopefully there will be no cars involved either. I've known a few cyclists who have been hit by cars, and this is not always a pretty picture. Since I will be doing a certain amount of my training at the Fancy Gym, I won't have to worry about the car problem at all. Wish me luck.

Maybe I'm Just Lazy...

I like to order stuff online and have it delivered to my front door. It's becoming quite the obsession for me. Maybe I'm just lazy, but the idea of ordering something on the computer and having it brought to me appeals to me for some reason. I especially like it when I can get things sent to me without having to pay shipping. Plus, since it generally takes a few days to get to me I usually forget what i ordered so opening the new package is sort of like Christmas. Many times a year. And I like that.

I figured out a few months ago that I can get canned cat food delivered to me with free shipping. It's cheaper than what the same cat food would cost in the store and whoever is sending it to me gives me an additional 15% discount because I have it set up to automatically ship once a month. Bonus. the cats also like this because they like canned cat food way better than the dry stuff. I have a friend who used to work at a vet and she said canned food is like a treat for cats because it is way tastier than the dry stuff. The vet told me that the cats should have both dry and wet food so it's all good.
What I don't understand is why dry cat food is more expensive when I order it online. And I can't seem to find any free shipping deals either. Not good. Still have to go to the store for the dry cat food.

You can pretty much order anything online. I especially like it when I can order from Amazon.com because I found a way to get free shipping through Amazon ever since I was duped into signing up to become a Prime Member a couple of years ago. I initially agreed to pay something like $65 for an annual membership which qualifies for free shipping on certain orders whenever I order from Amazon. I realize that this isn't really free shipping when you factor in the Prime annual membership, but if i order enough stuff it still averages out to being way cheaper than paying regular shipping charges so it's still a good deal. A while back I realized that now I can also get free movie and TV streaming from Amazon.com so that does help make it worth it a bit more. Win win for me.

Recently I ordered 40 rolls of toilet paper online for $25. Do i really need 40 rolls of t.p. delivered to me? No, but it was cheaper than what Charmin costs at the grocery store and the shipping was free so I went ahead and ordered it anyway. I'm stocked up for a while. Won't have to worry about running out.

I've been reading about some alternative health remedies for some of my health issues lately. Several sources recommended some nutritional supplements, all of which I was able to find online and with free shipping. Like the cat food, I also have the option of getting a discount if I sign up for automatic recurring deliveries too. Each supplement came in a different shipment so it was like getting major Christmas presents the week they came.

I ordered a special sun lamp online which gives off full-rays also. My house plants don't get many much direct sunlight so the lamp helps. Also, the lamp is supposed to help with eye strain when reading indoors and, as an added bonus, helps with Seasonal Affective Disorder should I come down with this next winter. Oh, and of course I didn't pay for shipping. Bonus.

Sometimes it's hard to get good Salsa at the stores here. Salsa has become a major food group for me as of late. I can go through an entire jar in about a day. Sometimes I eat salsa straight out of the jar if I can't find anything at home which goes well with salsa. Luckily, I have found ways to order Salsa online and in the quantities I need.

Since I still have to buy dry cat food at the store, I try to buy in bulk. The cats don't like this because the food goes stale so they keep wanting to eat out of the unopened bag so this week I found a special air tight pet food container, on wheels no less. Should help me keep the cats out of the unopened bags a bit better. It should arrive tomorrow.

I order books and DVDs online for super cheap. Can't always get free shipping for these, but when the item only costs a dollar or two, who cares if I have to pay a little shipping. In the end, it usually ends up being cheaper than renting or going to the library since I tend to rack up the fines from late returns.

Malls are annoying. Even worse than malls are the people who shop at malls. I try to avoid both as much as possible. Online shopping helps me do this. Besides, typical American malls tend to cater to the teenage shopper. That hasn't been me for quite a while.

Sometimes there are really interesting things to purchase online. The other day I found a site where I could order Kotex ultrathin longs maxi pads (with without the wings). You had to buy about a 6 month supply and you could get a discount if you set up the recurring autoship in 1, 3 or 6 month increments. Any of these options may or may not be a good idea and I'm all for being repared, but I'm just not sure I'm ready for a 6 month stockpile of feminine hygiene products just yet.

You can buy a coffin on the Costco website. Haven't needed to shop for a coffin since my dad died about 11 years ago, but it's good to know in case anyone else should pass on.

I've ordered cat litter boxes, a computer, a card reader, optical drive for the computer, speakers, and any number of items. I used to throw the boxes away until it finally occurred to me I could use them for storage or keep them for the next time I move. It's gotten so that i check online for deals before i go to the store. Sometimes I just browse the various sites just to see if there is something I need that I haven't thought of buying yet. In any event, I'll continue shopping online as long as the UPS guy keeps delivering to my front door.

Happy (Late) Father's Day!

June 25 marked the 11th anniversary of my the day my father left this mortal life. The week earlier was Father's Day. The passing of both these dates has caused me to reflect alot about my dad, the kind of person he was and the impact his life left on those who knew him. My father was a humble, unassuming person who possessed more humanity than perhaps anyone I have ever known. Since his death, I have had many opportunities to think about his absence in my life and reflect upon the fact that there are so few people in the world who could ever live up to being the kind of person he was.

Dad had a soft spot in his heart for the people of this world who are marginalized, discarded, overlooked, and otherwise dwell at the lowest echelons of society. He truly cared about others. He worried about their trials, helped carry their burdens, mourned when they mourned, understood their sufferings and, most importantly, felt an obligation to help.

There were many times when Dad would comment that he did something "because it needed to be done." He didn't reach out to people or help them in time of need because it was easy or convenient or even because he liked the person. He did it because he saw a need and he felt a moral obligation to fill it.

When I went home for Dad's funeral there was a woman, I will call her Diane (not her real name) at the viewing at the funeral home who came up to me and told me how much Dad had meant to her and how much he had helped her on many occasions. When she introduced herself, I immediately remembered Dad speaking of her on a number of occasions. She and I had met once or twice years before.

When Diane's two daughters were quite young, her husband shot and killed himself at home in front of the entire family. As if this trauma was not enough for the family to bear, the woman suffered from a serious health condition which left her unable to work. Dad said even with her disability she still did whatever she could to take care of her family, but unfortunately there was very little money for the family to live on without the father's income.

Over the years Dad shared many stories about the struggles of this family. Always he spoke with great respect and concern for their well-being. He spoke of great affection and concern for the young daughters who would now. not only grow up without their father, but who also were dealing with the emotional trauma of watching him shoot himself in their midst. I know there were many times he did what he could to help ease the suffering of this family and I know it was clearly appreciated by Diane and her girls.

Diane was one of the first people to arrive for the viewing that day and one of the last to leave. Every time I walked past her she would reach out to touch my arm and tell me how much she loved my dad and so very much appreciated all that he had done for her and her girls. I don't know all of the details of the things Dad did to help, but I know that Dad truly cared for this family and would have done anything to help alleviate their burdens. There were other, similar stories.

When my sisters and I were teenagers a certain young man from our school would come to the house around dinnertime on occasion. Dad always offered him a seat at our table without comment. Being teenagers, some of us were not on the best of terms with this young man and were not always very nice or hospitable to our surprise guest. We never understood why he came by for those meals until years later, after we were grown and had moved to a different city. Dad explained to us that this young man, whose single mother worked long hours, would often find himself at home alone and hungry with no food in the house. When Dad found out about this situation, he told the young man to come over whenever he was hungry and that he could always have a meal.

Around this same time Dad came home from work, opened the local newspaper to read as he often did, and announced that the paper reported that the Smith family (not their real name) had lost their house to a fire over the weekend. He immediately got up from his chair, told the rest of us to get in the car and drove to the bank to withdraw money from the bank. Within minutes we were parked at the curb where this family's home had once stood. Mr. and Mrs. Smith were sifting through the rubble in search of any possessions which might be salvaged from the ashes. Dad took Mrs. Smith aside and said to her, "As the mother of your family, I understand that your first instinct is to take care of your family, but I want you to take this money and go buy yourself a nice outfit for yourself." He then handed her a sum of money which would cover the cost of the said outfit.

Not quite a week later I was somewhere in town where I ran into Mrs. Smith. She was beaming when she walked into the building. She had never appeared to me more radiant. Her face was beaming with a bright smile and she had a beautiful, new purple dress which perfectly complimented her bright red hair and ruddy complexion. Here was a woman who had lost her home, all of her worldly possessions yet for a brief moment she seemed to not have a care in the world and had never looked more beautiful.

Dad knew someone in town who happened to work in the young men's department of a local department store. My father called on this friend at work one day to ask a favor. He gave the salesman a sum of money and told him to call the teenage son, Bryan (not his real name), and to tell him that an anonymous person wanted to buy him some new clothes to replace the ones he had lost in the fire. I won't go into details here, but after this incident I saw a slow transformation in this young man. Up until that point I had not held up much hope for his future. He did not seem like he was always traversing the right path toward adulthood in my young opinion. But in the years that followed I saw him make many good decisions and today he is a happy, responsible husband and father.

There is even more. One morning Dad had the feeling he should drop by to check on a friend at his place of employment. When Dad arrived, he found the man, I'll call him Mr Reynolds, sitting at his desk in his office contemplating suicide. Dad spoke with him about his situation and eventually made his way to the family home where he found Mrs. Reynolds so disabled by post-partem depression she couldn't get out of bed. There were several children in the family who were in urgent need of care which neither of their parents were able to give. Dad, as he so often did, immediately began doing what he could to help.

For atleast 10 months!!!! he went to the Reynolds' home every single day and cooked dinner for the family. Dad said he assumed the youngest child, a three year old, did not have anything to eat all day until he arrived because as soon as she saw him coming she would go sit in her high chair where Dad would immediately feed her. The older children were given chores each day such as unloading the dishwasher, cleaning the house, taking out the trash, etc. If the chores were not done each day, the kids did not get dessert.

Dad also spoke with an acquaintance who was a mental health professional about what he could do to help this family as well as tried to get them help from the community, church etc. Dad did what he could do to help this family get back on it's feet. Eventually, the parents took over more and more of the responsibilities in the home. Mrs. Reynolds was not only able to get out of bed, but became well enough to get a job to help support the family, which came about the same time Mr. Reynolds lost his job. Eventually Mr. Reynolds found new employment as well. Dad was finally able to stop going to the home every day to cook dinner for this family.

Not long after, Dad was close with another family who lost their 17 year old son to a car jacking. When he found out about the loss, Dad immediately went to the home of the Gordon family (again not their real name) to see what he could do to help. The loss was even more particularly tragic due to the fact that this was the third child the family had lost. Furthermore, the Gordon's were not a wealthy family so the burden of paying for even a simple funeral was a great expense. Dad went with the family to the funeral to make arrangements, he helped gather funds to help pay for the funeral and tried to support the family in any way he could. This was a circumstance which touched him deeply. My father was not a man who easily showed emotion, but he said that speaking at this young man's funeral was extremely emotional and difficult for him as he very much grieved for the loss of his young friend.

Years prior, when I was in grade school, Dad was in charge of delivering Christmas presents to a needy family our church was helping out for the holiday. We drove to the other side of town in a station wagon filled with presents the congregation had donated. Dad stopped the car at a small home he described as a "cracker jack box" where the family lived. My sisters and I helped Dad take the presents to the door where we were met by a very excited and appreciative family.

They referred to my dad as "Santa Clause". I could not imagine how an entire family could have lived in a house which appeared to me to be about the size of a small one bedroom apartment. At that young age, I had never known anyone to live in such a small home. While we were not wealthy, we were far from poor and seemed to have a very privileged life compared to that of Dad's new friends. On the way home from delivering the presents, Dad commented, as he would on countless other occasions, that he had brought us along so that we could have the experience of serving others and becoming aware that there were people out there who did not have as much as we did.

There are many, many stories I could recite her and I am sure many more I don't know about. I do not remember a week went by when Dad didn't do something kind to help another person. Sometimes they were small acts like visiting someone who was lonely, driving a person to run an errand, buying much needed medication for a person who did not have the money, or taking in someone who needed a place to stay for a night, a week, a month for whatever reason.

As I have grown up and gone out into the world I have been shocked to learn that not everyone lived by the same ethos as my father. Not everyone feels the obligation to help another person when it is much needed, but not necessarily convenient or easy or even appreciated. Since my father's death just over 10 years ago I have come across many people whom I have felt would be just the type of person Dad would want to help, only to realize he is no longer on this earth to do so. Furthermore, I have been very disappointed on numerous occasions to realize there is not another person who would care for these people and their problems the way Dad did. It seems that my father was sensitive to the needs of others in a way few other people are and i have to wonder why that is.

Dad was born in 1932, amidst the heart of the Great Depression. He used to say his family was pooooor, taking extra care to draw out the word as if to add emphasis to the family's degree and depth of poverty. When I was 12 years old, Dad turned to me one day and said, "When I was your age, we were in the middle of World War II." He spoke often of the deprivations of war-time rations and a scarcity of goods which had been diverted to the war effort. Somehow my father managed to go to college and obtained a degree in English from the University of Texas. At the age of 30, he married my mother. At the age of 36, my mother died suddenly of an aneurysm leaving him with three young daughters under the age of 4 years of age. He successfully raised us all to graduate from college, stay out of prison, and become independent, functional adults.

My father's life was not easy. Few would have faulted him if he had declined to reach out to others in need due his own adversity. There were many times, as a single parent, when he put the needs of others before his own despite his own struggles.

I believe it was through his own experience with adversity that he became more sensitive to the needs of others. He understood grief, poverty, deprivation, loneliness, despair, and pain through personal experience. He had been to the depths of the darkest abyss more than once and wanted to help his fellow travels find their way back.

My father had a gentle nature masked by a sometimes gruff exterior. He was in no way ostentatious. A humble, down-to-earth facade belied the fact that he had the greatest of appreciation for beauty, the arts, literature and education. He had the most love and concern for those who had the hardest lives. His were the people who had no money, drove broken down cars, wore tattered clothing, were not necessarily physically beautiful by worldly standards or were shunned by the high and mighty.

Once, I spoke of someone I knew whose life had traveled a course much different than my own. I did not understand, at the time, why this person had not been able to do better, achieve more. In a calm, soft-spoken tone that I would come to hear many times, Dad replied, "Life is just harder for some people. Not everyone has the same opportunities." He understood.

At Dad's funeral, on of his closest friends eulogized him with the words which describe him as well as anyone can:


For I was an hungred, and ye gave me meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me in:

Naked, and ye clothed e: I was sick, and ye visited me: I was in prison, and ye came unto me.

Then shall the righteous answer him, saying, Lord, when saw we thee an hungred, and fed thee? or thirsty, and gave thee drink?

When saw we thee a stranger, and took thee in? or naked, and clothed thee?

Or when saw we thee sick, or in prison, and came unto thee?

And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.

Matt 25: 34-40

I can't think of anyone who lived up to this ideal better.

There is No Frigate Like a Book

There is no Frigate like a Book
To take us Lands away,
Nor any Coursers like a Page
Of prancing Poetry –
This Traverse may the poorest take
Without oppress of Toll –
How frugal is the Chariot
That bears a Human soul.

---Emily Dickinson

Anyone who has ever been to my house or who knows me well knows that I own a lot of books.
The fact is, I love books. They are my friends, my respite from a weary world, traveling
companion to lands far away, education,inspiration, thought provocation.

I'll read almost anything, although I do draw the line at romance novels and cheap dime store
novels. Among the collection in my personal library are books on art, philosophy, history,the
classics, southern literature, mythology,religion, poetry, memoir, biography, cycling and even
a cookbook or two from the Junior League.

When I was in college there was a popular professor of English on campus who was purported
to often admonish his students, "Don't let your schooling get in the way of your education." I
must admit, much of the coursework I completed in college may have helped my obtain a college
diploma, but my real education came by way of the many hours I have spent in solitude curled up
with a book.

I know people who don't read books. I pity them. Some of them seem shockingly proud of their
lack of literacy. There was that one roommate in college who owned exactly one book. I have no
idea how it came into her possession or why. It was a John Grisham novel and took her months
to get through the first half of the book. She was not at all embarrassed by this. What she was
seemingly most proud of, however, was her busy dating life. Once, she confessed to me that she
had been asked on a date with almost every boy she knew. What she seemed not to notice at all
is that she never seemed to make it past the third date with any one boy. Even her pretty face
and short skirts showing off shapely legs could not mask the fact that at a certain point she
would be expected to hold up her end of the conversation. A task she never quite seemed to master.

The other day I saw historian and writer David McCullough interviewed on TV by Charlie Rose.
The author spoke of the importance for public officials to be well read on history and that his
advice to anyone who wanted to be a journalist would be not to get a degree in journalism, but
 to study literature, philosophy, history, anything to give them a broad,well rounded education
about the world around them.

When I was a teenager I started reading newspapers and watching the evening news on a
somewhat regular basis. I have kept up this practice over the years. I like to know what is
going on. I like to get my news from different sources, conservative, liberal, international,
local, national, PBS, and online websites. I get great insight by getting my new from
different sources and points of view. I question, reflect, compare, and contrast the information I receive and then
form my own opinions based on my analysis and information. It troubles me when people tell me they don't watch the
news or that they will only read one particular newspaper or watch one particular network or news show.
This shows me a complete lack of critical thinking on their part and indicates that they have completely given up their
right to think independently. People who can't think for themselves easily allow others to manipulate them at a heavy
price.

One of my favorite teachers in school was my 10th grade English teacher named Mr. Henry. It has been many years
since I have sat in his class absorbing his love of literature, being inspired to write by his admonitions, and, most
importantly, being prodded out of my teenage complacency to think. Mr. Henry would bellow, "You people have got to
learn to THINK." I know we frustrated him then. He probably never thought he got through to us on any of these
points, but I loved his class and still hear his voice reverberating in my ears after all these years.

Recently someone advised me that i should get rid of some of my books because I have so many of them as if they
were nothing but clutter. I was horrified to hear my precious tomes of literature reduced to nothing more than fodder
for the landfill. I may own alot of books, but the fact is, I do read them often. And after that I continue to peruse their
pages over and over again. They remind me to value the printed page, ideas, thought, a well told story, education and
art.

It is not so long ago that books were too expensive for most people to afford to have in their homes. Many of us might
be shocked to learn how few generations back we would have to travel to find someone in our family who was the first
person to learn to read or go to school. I see the recent political uprisings in the middle east and am grateful to live in
a country where I am not persecuted to say what I want,speak out against the government and own what books I
choose.

Years ago I was a volunteer tutor in an adult literacy program. I worked with adults who were trying to learn to read at
an age when many people would have given up. I learned first hand how hard life is for the person who cannot read at
a basic level of literacy. They can't fill out a job application, get or keep most jobs, can't read a menu at McDonald's,
read a newspaper or warning sign. The horizon for an adult non-reader is very limited in many ways.

What is really frightening to me is that we live in a nation where books and education are so easily available to the
general population and yet so unappreciated by so many. Those who can read and do not have no advantage over the
person who cannot read at all.

This is the Kind of Day I Am Having

I didn't pay the gas bill because the statement said it wasn't due until July 7. And this month is still June. I might be blonde, I might be a liberal arts major, I might be a youngest child, but I know the order of the months. May, June July. If last month was May, this month is June, then July isn't until next month. Duh. Even i know that. This means i don't have to pay the bill yet. I still have a few days before the due date.

Today the gas was turned off anyway.

I called the gas company. Furious, of course. Spitting mad, ready to take off the head of the next gas company employee I could get to after the 10 minutes of hold time and pressing a never ending series of prompts and more hold time and I'm sorry I didn't get a response press 1 for...Then FINALLY a person. A real live, breathing, eating, sleeping, presumably nap taking, working, live and very inquisitive actual person.

"Can I please verify your name? Thank you."
" Now can I please verify the address where the service is located?"
"And the address where we need to send the bills?"
"And the last 4 digits of your Social Security number?"
"What is your date of birth, please?"
"To update our records, can I please have your marital status?"
"Who is your employer?"
"And your mother's maiden name?"
"How about your blood type?"
"What about the city where you were born?"
"What did you have for lunch on May 8, 1987?"
"What is your most recent credit score?"
"How many times have you been incarcerated for a Class B felony?"
"What is your favorite television show?"
"Who do you think is going to win the next season of American Idol?"
"What is your favorite flavor of ice cream?"
"Okay, thank your for that information. Now how can I help you?"

Long story short, I explained to the Quiz Master that I wanted to know why my gas service was disconnected today when the two bills in my hand said my bill was not due until sometime next Christmas and I wasn't even given a 48 hour notice on my door like the guy across the street gets every other month to warn me the service was going to get turned off. This time she had answers instead of an endless litany of questions.

"Okay, so we sent you a bill in May for X amount of dollars. And then we sent you a 10 day notice on such and such a day for this amount telling you your service was subject to termination"

Nope. Didn't get them.

Immediately I knew she was lying because the two bills in my hand were for different amounts than she was quoting. And the dates were different. I argued. I protested. I demanded my service be turned back on immediately without further recrimination, penalties, deposit, or inconvenience.

The lady at the other end of the line declined. She kept going on and on about the bills for different amounts and different dates that were sent, or not sent, depending on which one of us you asked. She demanded immediate payment of all past due amounts, a $15 late fee , taxes, a phone processing fee, and a deposit equal to the amount of a large house before my service could be restored. Without meeting her demands I could not have hot water for my shower, or to wash dishes, or gas to run the furnace should a sudden cold snap arrive and require the use of the heater in the middle of June. She had me over a barrel. I was stuck, like a pig in a poke (whatever that means). Like Winnie the Pooh in a honey pot. Like a tire in the mud. Like white to rice. Like that sticky stuff to the back of tape. Like toilet paper to the bottom of your shoe at the most inconvenient and embarrassing moment.

Then I noticed a glitch to the scheme. The true reason for the problem was not even my fault. While examining the papers in front of me it became evidently clear that the US Post Office was to blame. The name and the address on the front of the envelope were different from most of the other mail that usually comes to my house.

Soooo...Apparently my neighbor Laura Livingston has another week or so to pay her gas bill, but mine was due at some earlier date. I think I'll wait until September to give her the bill put in my mailbox by mistake just as a little payback. Right now I get to go take a very cold shower. :(

You Mean I Have to Keep on Writing?

Sooo....Apparently with this blog thing you are supposed write and the reader is supposed to come back and read. Which obviously I haven't been doing so you couldn't. It's not like I haven't thought about writing or intended to write or waxed poetic in my mind brilliant pieces of prose late at night when I couldn't sleep. But apparently the words don't write themselves. My bad. I'll try to do better.

I have this writing book which claims that to be a writer you have to write every day. Every. Single. Day. Sometimes that just doesn't happen. Obviously. Some days I don't have anything brilliant to say or any deep thoughts the world might care about. There are days when my brain is occupied with nothing more than making sure the cats have food and water, getting dressed, taking a shower, riding my bike or watching Law and Order reruns on TNT for 8 hours straight. Does the world really need to know about this? Probably not.

There are of course other things to blog about. Some more important. Some not so important. I could write about the book I'm reading, but I'm only on page 8 and I can't remember the title right now. My super cute 11 year old niece and nephew just graduated from elementary school. How is this possible?!?!?! They were only babies yesterday. I could write about that. Or I could write about how I'm afraid of my washing machine because it seriously sounds like it's about to blow up every time I run the spin cycle. Or I could write deep thoughts about philosophy or art or God. That would require lots of thought and use of big words and today I'm feeling pretty lazy so maybe not.

I know people who blog. They post pictures of their artwork, family vacations, dogs, cats, friends, bucolic outdoor scenery. They write sometimes moving or funny or inspirational or poignant stories about their lives. Their blogs have beautiful layouts with cool fonts and colors. I'm lucky if I can upload a post without losing my piece. I have a digital camera. I suppose I could take pictures, but I have no idea how to get the pictures from my camera to the blog. Today I tried to change the font of the text and yet it still looks the same. Why is this? I can't even change the font? Are you kidding me? I am a college graduate. I should be able to do better than this.

Maybe someday I'll be able to write something witty and profound. Maybe someday I'll be able to write on a more consistent basis so my throngs of adoring fans clamoring for more prose won't have to wait so long.

Writing can be hard work. First, you have to think of something to say. Then, you actually have to write it. Sometimes you have to write over and over just to put the words together exactly the right way. Then, in my case, I have to upload the words to the blog without losing the text. That seems to be the hard part.

Sometimes there are mundane tasks or pets which interrupt my blogging. I made the cats go outside a little while ago because they were being too clingy and it was really driving me crazy. It took me a five whole minutes to get them both outside and then I slammed the door really fast so they wouldn't come back inside. Those animals really need to get out more.

The only reason I have been able to write these words is because they are outside and I am inside. Alone. With my computer. Otherwise, atleast one of them would be standing on my keyboard making the computer do bizarre things. Guaranteed. Now I can hear them crying and scratching at the door so I had better go let them in before I make them too mad. If they kill me, I can't write anymore blog posts.

This is going well.

I just spent the past two, count them, uno, dos...one, two hours (atleast) writing what I am sure would have been a sure fire preamble to my future Pulitzer Prize winning literary career only to have the whole thing somehow deleted when I went to preview it before posting.

Technology sucks. Except I am not supposed to use that word so now my sister will hassle me for saying the S word since that is apparently against the rules. So pretend I didn't really say that. Ahem, so, uh...Technology sometimes likes to replicate the performance of an Orbit vacuum cleaner on a bowling ball in the late night infomercials I see on TV when the insomnia kicks in and I am up all night and the good TV shows aren't.

Sometimes life just goes this way. Sometimes your whole life (ie, mine) goes this way for multiple decades in a row and won't change it's course no matter how many self-help books you read, day planners you purchase, alarm clocks you set, sessions of therapy your insurance won't cover, vision boards you collage with cut out photos from magazines or goals you "write down to make it happen" like the book says to do, or positive thinking you never quite seem to master.

Now you understand a bit of how I ended up like this.

Please pray I can atleast post this without losing it again. It's been one of those days. For the past twenty years. Or more.

A Word of Caution....

If you are related to me, you probably don't want to read any further as you may find what follows to be a poor reflection on the family. And if you are not related to me, I should first add the disclaimer that my relations should not be held responsible for whatever uncouth, uncivilized or ill behavior which may be represented in my posts. Afterall, it's not their fault I turned out this way.

My dad really did have the best of intentions. After my mother died when we were quite young, he was saddled with the task of raising three young daughters by himself. He had high hopes of us all. Dad wanted his daughters to be well-mannered, cultured, refined and otherwise civilized in all areas. He exposed us to any manner of the arts and culture. He provided us with fine mentors to teach us by the best example. We were required to take piano lessons, provided with library cards, hauled to every museum, symphony, ballet, theatre, opera and art gallery within 150 miles of our home. A college education was an expectation, not an option.

When other girls we allowed to go bare legged with their Sunday dresses, we were required to wear panty hose or tights. Dad always expected us to wear the appropriate undergarments for the occasion, which meant slips and camisoles were not an option, even in the 100 degree South Texas heat and humidity.

When we reached the age that young ladies like to try on make up, Dad did not want us going around looking like hookers as many of our peers might have done. He took us to the Merle Norman Cosmetics store and the Clinique counter at a high end department store to have someone with real expertise in these matters show us how to correctly apply our make up and tell us which colors and shades were most flattering. Then he shelled at atleast $100 for the complete line of skin care and make up. For weeks I had to read the manual that came with the set up to know which order to use the cleanser, toner, lotion, foundation, blush, eye shadow and mascara, etc.

You would think all of this effort towards my civilization and refinement could have been nothing but a banner success. And you would be wrong. I was having none of it. Well, atleast after I was able to get out of the house and a safe distance from home. I was indeed taught better. It just didn't stick.

To the horror of those around me, I am now known to regularly leave the house without make up or hair combed. On occasion, I have traveled to the grocery store or other public places in broad daylight in my pajamas (ie, bleach stained sweats) with no shame. My nail polish generally comes in hues such as blue, orange, purple or green and is often chipped. Much to the horror of certain siblings, I have a penchant for the odd yard sale or thrift store and proudly wear the ensembles I find there.

Compared to the guests on generally any episode of Jerry Springer, I am seemingly well behaved. However, compared to the former Junior League members in the family, my actions might resemble behaviors typically on display at the local WalMart.

And as for my general career path or pretty much any other adult rites of passage...Well, I'll get to that part later.

You have been warned. I take no responsibility for any dismay I may cause you from this point forward. Afterall...Admit it. I make your life look pretty good. If you don't believe me, stick around.