eclecticity

my story: where the miracle lies

2008-05-01T18:42:00.000+02:00

© 2008 diana m. hartman

I just didn't have it to tell one more soul
From beginning to end, how I came to be whole
But this man, he wanted to hear it again
New therapist, new doctor, here we go again
I'd wanted to say how I had to decide
How I might get the wish, then regret it for life
There just came a point in the course of my life
When triumphs, survival and hope brimmed with light
But I knew that my words would mean nothing to him
How you can't talk away someone's questions or whims
So I just turned away and I wished for him peace
'Cause I know that's the one thing we all get the least

I just didn't have it to tell one more soul
The prices I've paid, the sum of the toll
But somehow I managed, and for the last time
I'm telling you this, pay attention this time

"The depths with which joy has found ways to my soul
Were mercilessly carved out way too long ago
You're taking for granted that I've always been
This happy go lucky, that's not always been
What uncle called training and auntie called chore
Turned out to be making a six year old whore
What the neighbor called favor, the old men called dues
Did mercilessly strip back all color and hue
This voice that you hear every time that I speak
Isn't mine, it's a scar, when I cough it still bleeds
You don't want to know from where my joy now comes
It is not of this world, it's a world all it's own."

He listened intently but lacked all affect
I thought it a good time to explain how it is:

"Behind closed doors and dollhouses there is a world
Where grown people get sick and throw up on girls
Where boys who stand shorter than the edge of your desk
Are strip mined and thrown out for some madman's quest
It's not just third world countries or back alley ways
It's not just in the fields or out of the way
It's right here beside you just go on next door
Peer into that window and see what stains the floor
Draw back in disgust and then cover your eyes
The child can't see you, she already died
Oh, she'll get up and walk out but look closer still
She carries no blankie, just a half beaten will
Her spirit now shattered, she will give it away
To just about anything that shuts down the pain
If that doesn’t work, and it probably won’t
Her mind will shut down while her body goes on
Once grown she will jump from one 'love' to the next
And her body will shut down right along with the rest
Perhaps she’ll know why but she won’t know the score
She’ll just think she’s damaged all the way to the core."

I told him the rest of my story and sighed
He feverishly wrote up and down, side to side
He reviewed my two long ago MMPI's*
"Shut down", "Isolated", "Might take her own life"
He then pulled the one I took one week before
"Cries easy", "Gregarious", "Unfocused" and more
He asked if I thought it was right or untrue
"A bit heavy handed" I said, "but it's true."
He said it was good that I saw it that way
"Good that you see yourself accurately, eh?
He thoughtfully helped me lay out a plan
"Here's how you'll get your life back in your hands."
He took thoughtful care and I tried to take heed
But all I could think was "I'm still in such need?"
My goodness, I thought after all I have done,
The groups and the books and the meds, aren't I done?
The management classes for anger and stress
I did learn from these things even while still depressed
The one-on-one sessions, the hypnotist, too
The psyche wards, the recalls, I've done what I could
I'm not suicidal, not even depressed
I eat right, work out, and get plenty of rest

And as I sat there it occurred to me then
I've let myself be MMPI'ed to death

I'm not so ungrateful for all of the help
But there must be limits to "fixing" myself
I know it's a journey and there is no end
But what of who I have become through all this?
That test had no question 'bout my sense of humor
But damn if it won't say my soul has a tumor
It didn't assess, and I don't think it could,
How great it can feel to feel so good
It didn't reflect my compassion and love,
My creative flow and resourcefulness
Once back from the ledge, it's a whole different thing
The test doesn't show that or the consequent strengths

I'll probably never pass your MMPI
I didn't know that was the goal all this time
I've just had a dream and I followed it through
To be who I am and then love myself, too
It makes little difference when interpreted tests
Reveal my weaknesses and ignore all my strengths
What matters the most is the question unasked
"Do you love your life and does life love you back?"
My story, the details, those aren't just some words
You've yet to ask how much did all of that hurt
My God it was painful, I thought I would die
But I didn't...and that's Where The Miracle Lies.

*MMPI stands for Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory. It is an extensive
psychiatric assessment in a several hundred question true/false format.

When Words Go Unheeded

2007-04-22T15:39:00.000+02:00

Every school shooter did in some way telegraph or flat out announce their problems and intentions.

On April 20, 1999, 18-year old Eric Harris and 17-year old Dylan Klebold, of Jefferson County, Colorado, killed 12 people and wounded 24 others before both committed suicide on the campus of Columbine High School. They had planned their violent outburst for a year. They expressed their hate and discontent with the world via website and video. This was done without parental knowledge or supervision, even though their parents were described as ""dream parents" and "caring, attentive parents."

On March 5, 2001, then 15-year old Charles Andrew Williams fatally shot two of his classmates and wounded 13 others at Santana High School in Santee, California. Williams told several people about some of the problems he was having. His divorced parents said they knew he was having problems. The day before the shooting, Williams shared information with others about the way he'd chosen to deal with his life. Because he followed his announcement with “I’m joking,” classmates would later say they didn’t take him seriously.

On April 16, 2007, 23-year-old Cho Seung-Hui killed 32 people and himself, and wounded -- others at Virginia Tech in Blacksburg, Virginia. Before the shooting, Seung-Hui’s writing assignments were described as "macabre" and "disturbing," his classmates speculated about his propensity for becoming a school shooter, and concerned faculty brought the writings to the attention of administrators.

Prior to and since 1999, there has been no shortage of school shootings by students who felt troubled and either demonstrated or spoke directly of their problems and/or their intentions. In almost every case, someone knew what was going to happen and didn’t tell anyone until a reporter or law enforcement investigator asked about their affiliation with the shooter.

I was four-years-old in 1966 when Charles Whitman killed 15 people and wounded 31 others in Austin, Texas. Since then, I've heard people half-joke about someone looking so stressed or being so bullied that they "might just end up on the news at the top of a tall building."

Before I knew it, there "someone" was - again and again. That the geography of violence has moved from the clock tower to the post office to the playground to the campus appears to have some seeing it all very differently when it's obvious the motives are the same: "I can't take it anymore and I don't know what else to do."

There is no justification for murder. Why the young men and boys did what they did is only an explanation, but it is an important, and thus far ignored part of the equation. Those who would ignore the explanation are inviting more of the same because of the inactivity their disbelief breeds. It doesn't matter whether or not a person is justified in feeling the way he/she does. What matters is that the person does feel that way. As we've seen time and again, people will sometimes act on those feelings in a violent way when they think they've run out of options. It doesn't matter that there were other options; it matters that they didn't see them.

Even if someone did show them options (although there is no evidence to suggest any of the aforementioned shooters were afforded the services they needed), they didn't continue to work with them until a plausible option was found. Before this point is bemoaned, look at yourself and the choices you've made given the options you've had.

If you're still sitting in a dead end job that makes you miserable because quitting won't pay the bills, then you know what an implausible option feels like. I'm not comparing the situations or the consequences; I'm saying you know what it feels like and how that feeling directly affected the decision you made. You can, therefore, now choose to stuff that unsettling feeling of empathy down deep inside or act on it to bring about positive change in your life and in the lives of others.

If your response is that you don't know what to do, then you also know what it feels like to feel helpless. If your response is that the shooters should have just dealt with it, then you obviously have ideas for dealing with stress that could help others, so then be kind enough to step forward and share with those who don't know what else to do. We are simply not as separate from each other as we would like to think we are - and good thing, too, because if we were, we wouldn't be capable of all the happiness and good fortune that we do have.

While water coolers and all manner of technology are abuzz with "Why did he do it?" I pose the question "Why are we just talking about it?" We don't like to think about things like this happening, much less have it plastered all over the front pages of our newspapers. That doesn't mean we should ignore it or make dead-end editorial comments in the aftermath without a plan to back it up. It means we should accept that other people, specifically children, feel differently and respond differently to the stress in their lives.

Because most of us respond differently, in that we keep ourselves in check, we are obligated to express this by sharing just how we are able to maintain control with those who come into our lives with a bit of trouble on their face. Our disdain with their lack of skills is not justification for not taking the time to at least give that person a knowing glance.

Every shooter did in some way telegraph or flat out announce their problems. They didn't have the tools to deal with their problems. If they already had the tools to deal with their problems in a positive manner they would have. They obviously didn't, and in some small way they were all looking for answers to their questions.

That those questions were hidden beneath disturbing comments, stares, conversations, videos, websites and one-act plays is no excuse for having kept right on about one's business as if one had heard nothing. I'm not saying anyone should've heard murder coming, but every person privy to what was said or demonstrated heard or saw something that was obviously good enough to repeat to reporters the day of and after the shootings.

With the exception of Seung-Hui's teacher alerting administrators of his writing, no one reported their concerns prior to the shootings. Is this because they lacked a microphone and the promise of a few minutes of publicized glory? If what you hear today is good enough to repeat in an on-camera interview tomorrow, then it's worth mentioning to someone today.

We all know what it feels like to have a horrible no good very bad day. For some of us, it's way more than just a day. Why is it so unfathomable for so many to believe that the odds of someone actually going through life feeling tormented -- by their own inner demons or by others -- are alarmingly high?

The Santee, California boy was called a "coward" and his actions "cowardly." What was he called the day before? That's right - no one was listening. Everyone was too busy not taking his comments seriously. His actions were taken seriously, though, weren't they? Look at how much attention was given to every shooter's violent behavior versus how much attention was given to anything they'd said or demonstrated before they hurt anyone. The same can be woefully said of every shooter.

Echoed in the haunting lyrics of Harry Chapin's "Sniper", the young men involved in every shooting either asked for help from those around them even though some of them didn't know how to say it, or they made their intentions clear by way of the things they were doing and saying. Like the "Sniper," we have once again answered the desperately human question "Am I?" with inhumanity.

Given the daily hostility, stress, and aggravation we are all subjected to, it's a miracle there aren't more people losing it, but who is to say there aren't more people losing it? We heard about Eric and Charles and Cho because they killed people. We aren't hearing about any of the other kids who, at this very moment, are feeling the same way they did but are instead withdrawing inside themselves. We may never see some of them ever again. Others, we may see on the news in the coming days.

The pen was thought to be mightier than the sword. Unfortunately, we've sent the message loud and clear that we will not heed words, only weapons. We didn't focus on what any of these young men were saying until they said it with bullets, and even now our focus is not on what they said but how they said it.

Robert Fulghum wrote, "Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will break my heart." Every one of us will find a way to be heard when the need is strong enough, and every one of us has an opportunity to listen. The Virginia Tech shooting, along with all the others like it, is proof that we will continue to be haunted by the people we choose not to see and the words we choose not to hear.

Satire: Illusionist David Copperfield and USMC Join Forces

2007-04-08T20:47:00.000+02:00

The White House has announced that illusionist David Copperfield secretly and voluntarily enlisted in the United States Marine Corps. Meritoriously-promoted Lance Corporal Copperfield has graduated from MCRD Parris Island and will soon deploy with Camp Lejeune-based 2nd Recon. The unit's top-secret mission will be to solicit the attention and attendance of insurgents in a given area of combat. Once the insurgents are lured, Copperfield will make the Marines disappear. When the insurgents are adequately befuddled, the Marines will commence firing.

After the initial mission has taken place, the tactics will change because it is assumed word will spread to remaining insurgents that disappearing Marines must be avoided. Details about the change in strategy have not yet been released, but unidentified White House sources have disclosed the possibility of Copperfield turning U.S. military strongholds into mosques and Marines into virgins. Copperfield, who successfully convinced millions into thinking he’d made the Statue of Liberty disappear, was said to have expressed doubt about being able to create the illusion of something as far-fetched as a virginal Marine.

Earlier today, United States Secretary of Defense Robert Gates formally denied rumors that any U.S. military leader or servicemember is currently training with Copperfield in an eventual effort to make President Bush and Vice President Cheney disappear long enough to get the operations in Iraq and Afghanistan moving along in a way more befitting the military standard. In a video press conference held shortly after his graduation from boot camp, Copperfield warned that his illusions, when conducted by inadequately trained personnel, run the risk of becoming real and permanent.

Horology For the Masses

2007-04-08T20:41:00.000+02:00

Written: March, 2007

To best take advantage of the information provided herein, open links/images in a new window.

As the United States begins its earlier-than-usual shift into springtime, we take a look at many things horological around the world. (European Union countries will shift later this month and the shift varies for those countries outside the EU and US that participate in Daylight Saving Time.) While every attempt has been made to spare the reader a pun-laden expose, try to forgive the occasional transgression.

We are most aware of time when the phone rings in the wee hours of the night. We first look at our bedside clock (as if it were the source of the noise?) and with a sudden sinking feeling we answer the phone, certain it’s bad news. Sometimes all is well but for the future of the loved one in another part of the world who innocently proclaims, "I forgot about the time difference." In sleepy haste, we scribble a note: Take caller out of will.

He Who Defines the Terms

Lee Smolin, a theoretical physicist, professor of physics, and member of the Center for Gravitational Physics and Geometry at Pennsylvania State University, answers the question "What is time?" He can answer a lot of questions, to be sure, none of which I'm qualified to paraphrase here. If I've learned nothing else about horology, it is that the smartest people in the world know way more about it than I do. It's nice that they share.

Those driven to learn by data alone will no doubt find much to be had with Horology: The Index, as presented by world traveler and all-around very smart man, Fortunat F. Mueller-Maerki. Interested newcomers to horology may take interest in the clepsydra (0), an ancient device for measuring time by the regulated flow of water or mercury through a small aperture.

Who Doesn't Love a Convert?

Silent Warriors not only displays an easy-to-use visual reference (1) for converting standard time to military time, they've also included a brief explanation for those new to the conversion. Intuitor founder Tom Rogers shows us how and why a time of 12:11 converts to 8_1F on a hexclock (2).

Tool Time

Time is noted many times in a day on many a machine, appliance, and accessory. If you want to know the time on someone's watch in a different country (something our will-banished caller would do well to try), take a look at Steffen Thorsen's user-friendly World Clock. For visual reference, the different time zones can be seen as mapped out by World Time Zone.

From sundials to the atomic second, Encyclopedia Britannica's Clockworks offers a most comprehensive horological examination of time tools with easy-to-read passages and eye-catching imagery. Equally intriguing and visually appealing is the Franklin Institute Science Museum Journey in Time. Enthusiasts will likely find the former more interesting, while schoolteachers may find the latter more useful.

History buffs, trivia collectors, and anyone who enjoyed picture books as a child may enjoy the National Institute of Standards and Technology (NIST) presentation of The Evolution of Time. You only thought you didn't have time to learn about ancient calendars, early clocks, world time scales and time zones, the revolution in timekeeping, the atomic age, and lots of suggested reading in the bibliography.

NIST's laboratories in Boulder, Colorado, developed NIST-F1, a cesium fountain atomic clock. This clock is about as close as you can get to the end-all-be-all of timekeeping as it is "the nation's primary time and frequency standard" and "contributes to the international group of atomic clocks that define Coordinated Universal Time (UTC), the official world time."

Call Your Travel Agent

Everything you wanted to know about time travel is just moments away. For your perusal is PBS' companion Web site to the NOVA program "Time Travel," and "Time Travel for Beginners" by John Gribbin, science writer and visiting Fellow in astronomy at the University of Sussex. If you're thinking about taking that fateful trip, Scientific American presents the schematic-free "How to Build a Time Machine."

If your horological interest in travel is less about dimension and more about destination, there are a few clocks you may find interesting. The Astronomical Clock (Orloj) (3) of the Old Town Hall in Prague, Czech Republic, continually provides the full range of astronomical data. The clock was installed in 1410 and rebuilt in 1490 by the Master Hanuš. Of its three parts -- the procession of Apostles, the astronomical clock, and the calendar -- its most popular attraction is the hourly procession of the 12 Apostles. The tower stands about 226 feet (approximately 69 meters).

The 1547 Horloge Astronomique of Strasbourg, Alsace, France (4) offers up four levels of timekeeping activity. Among the most fascinating things this clock does is show the different stages of life. The fourth level shows the Apostles pass by, bow, and receive Christ's benediction. Also, a rooster spreads its wings and sings. This used to happen when the clock struck twelve noon, but it upset the clergy that many churchgoers were leaving mass before it ended to see the clock at its most active glory. The clergy delayed the passing of the Apostles until half past noon.

Set in 1753, the clock of Independence Hall (5) in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, was removed in 1828. It was replaced in 1972 by the National Park Service with a 14-foot carved replica. (I've been many places in the U.S. and Europe, but never Philadelphia. If someone knows anything more about this clock, please leave information in the comments section below.) The oldest and longest continuously running clock in the United States is said to be the Winnsboro, South Carolina Town Clock, built in 1833. The works for this clock were ordered from Alsace, France (home of the aforementioned Horologe Astronomique). Many public clocks throughout the United States are located, inventoried, and assisted in their preservation and maintenance by Save America's Clocks.

Timely Tidbits

Every part of the picture (of the Musée d'Orsay clock in Paris) links to something relevant with time. By opening a link in a new window, you will have this page to refer back to for more fun!

The End of Time

Time is a concept limited to the human mind, as it exists nowhere else. Vast, though, are the efforts and attempts made throughout history to measure, keep, save, and track time. This has been but a brief look at a few of these efforts. It's hoped the horologically inclined among us have learned or learned more for it.

"Time is but the stream I go a-fishing in." - Henry David Thoreau

The Almost Report: Thallium Poisoning?

2007-04-08T20:40:00.000+02:00

News that might've happened. Speculation at 11:00.

Depending on who you talk to, Soviet-born Dr. Marina Kovalevsky, 49, and her daughter, Yana, 26, were and were not confirmed to have been poisoned with thallium while visiting Moscow. They definitely left Russia after treatment and they're definitely being treated at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center in Los Angeles.

According to most of the following news sources, the two women "emigrated to the United States in 1989." In mid-February of this year, they flew to Moscow to attend a wedding. On February 24th, they became ill and were hospitalized in Moscow. (Isn't it funny how the word "emigrated" is used for everyone who did not immigrate from Mexico?)

The Almost Report asks: Were they poisoned with thallium or not?

Yes - On March 7th, an informed source told RIA-Novosti (Russian News and Information Agency) that two visiting U.S. citizens of Russian origin were poisoned with thallium.

Maybe - In that same RIA-Novisti report, the U.S. Embassy said it had not confirmed thallium poisoning, but did say it was "a possibility."

Yes - Not to be outdone by the U.S. Embassy, NBC11 reported Nikolai Filatov, Moscow's top public health doctor, as having said thallium poisoning was confirmed. NBC11 says, "Now investigators want to know if the poisoning was intentional."

How do you investigate whether or not something was intentional if you don't yet know that it even happened? This is what you get when you use graduates from the School of Intelligent Design.

Maybe - SignonSanDiego reports the hospital as having said, "It is still too early to determine exactly what may have caused their illness.”

Yes - CBS' March 7th headline read "Poisoned U.S. Women Out Of Moscow Hospital."

CNN and Radio Free Europe reported on the side of Maybe, but ABC ("2 American Women Poisoned in Moscow") joined NBC11 and RIA Novisti on the side of Yes.

Almost all of the news reports closed with a humdinger of a "this didn't happen, but we're reporting it anyway" segment: The CIA is said to have "considered" -- rather "reportedly considered" -- using thallium against Fidel Castro, "possibly" putting it in his shoes so he'd lose his beard.

Yes citizens, you heard right. Baldness is worse than death, and unrealized pranks have now been bumped up into the category of "news." Johnny Knoxville will be thrilled.

How to Win a War

2007-04-08T20:37:00.000+02:00

Do I hear any other ideas? All right then - bombs away already.

To assert that the Democrats alone are responsible for what is now perceived by many as wars that cannot be won would be to suggest we were winning before the Democrats took the majority. We weren't winning before the Democrats took the majority. By "wars" I mean both areas of combat -- Iraq and the oft forgotten, still raging Afghanistan.

The Democrats having won the majority has had the net result of zero. Military leaders -- their assessments and advice -- have been summarily dismissed with alarming frequency throughout the wars. As it stands now, more servicemembers than not question the validity and viability of the war and the administration's handling of it. No one is listening to the servicemember or the servicemembers' leaders. This has not changed with the advent of the Democrats’ majority.

While we can go on and on about what might be or what might have been, it is far better for all involved to look at what has actually been and what is actually going on. Neither the Democrats nor the Republicans appear to be doing this and both are suggesting band-aids for the large, gaping wounds they're just sure the other side caused.

Either they (politicians) don't believe a large, gaping wound can get much worse in short order or they don't care if it does (meaning the large, gaping wound is not, in fact, their concern). Either way, the loss is life -- not their lives -- and more is lost as they banter back and forth about non-issues.

The stability and future of American foreign policy rests solely on the Bush administration. Nothing is stopping Bush from taking the bulls by the horn, sitting down with Iraqi leaders (in Iraq) and sticking with it until a deal is hammered out once and for all. Why isn't he doing this?

As much as we'd all like to think those we voted for are acting in our best interests, it's worth noting the goings-on behind this foot-dragging blame game. Neither side has focused on the troops in a way that brings about any good for the troops. Those in combat are without a well-defined mission and are dying and being wounded for it. Those returning are wounded in a myriad of ways, and the system in place to take care of them is sorely lacking on every level.

The Republicans want the Democrats to say they support the troops. The Democrats want the Republicans to bring the troops home. Neither is doing anything about the welfare of the troops themselves – from listening to their leadership to providing for their life-long care and rehabilitation.

No one is doing anything! There’s more yak, yak, yak in Washington, D.C. than there is at the corner coffee shop of Middletown America. It's shameless, degrading, and useless.

Actions speak louder than words. What are the actions? How do they match up with what has been said? Bush said his goal was relative peace and stability in the region - and yet he is not there making it happen. Why is he still on U.S. soil when that is not where the conflicts are, when that is not where our servicemembers are dying, when that is not where the people are that need be spoken with in order to bring peace and stability to the region?

Conversely, if the Democrats were all that hot on getting this wrapped up, why are they not actually doing so? The Democrats remind me of the parent who warns their child about what will happen if they don't stop jumping on the furniture instead of just taking the child off the furniture. Verbally disapproving of the troop surge? How is that different from "Johnny, stop jumping on the couch!" It isn't - Johnny is still jumping. Non-binding resolution? Oh look, Johnny is still jumping – duh – and he will continue to jump until the parent grows a couple and makes Johnny stop. So far, the parent is still sitting at the kitchen table drinking their coffee and hollering out completely useless commands from afar.

Both sides blame the other for lack of action and all this accomplishes is shifting our focus from what one isn't doing to what the other isn'tdoing. Wake up America; neither side is doing a damned thing.

A troop surge is fundamentally no different than a non-binding resolution because neither of these things will accomplish what is said to be the goal of either side - bringing peace and stability to the region or bringing the troops home.

What is the goal in Iraq and Afghanistan? If you say anything other than direct quotes from the administration, you're speculating. If you can't say, it's because there have been no quotes to take directly from the administration. The same can be said of the Democrats' goals. What the hell are the goals?

As far as i can tell, the Republicans' goal is to keep this war going no matter what the cost - on all levels. The reason? So Bush and his administration can save face. Jeezy creezy, that could take decades if it ever even happens. If it's something other than a world record-setting face-saving contest, then what the hell is it? Freedom, peace, stability? Judging by the actions, it sure hasn't looked like it since the capture of Saddam Hussein. We've not caught Osama bin Laden, and the troops on the ground do not currently have the mission of capturing him, so what's the goal there?

The Democrats' goal appears to be to verbally harass the administration until they cave in and bring the troops home. This is no more going to happen than Johnny coming off the couch the first time or third time he's told. Johnny knows he's got two or three free chances to jump before his parent even bothers to stand up from the table, maybe more before the parent drags themselves over to the couch. Even then, dear Democrats, are you absolutely sure you even care about the condition of the couch or what could happen if Johnny falls? Judging by your actions, it sure hasn't looked like it so far.

The obligatory tossing about of terms like "freedom," "liberty," and "peace" sounds good on paper and in speeches, but what has actually been done by this administration and the Democrats who won the majority to bring about the meanings of these very words?

Baghdad is not the whole of Iraq. Not one home the troops have stormed, are storming or will storm belongs to the Iraqi leaders who must now agree to sit down to formal negotiations with the United States or have their war-ravaged country dumped squarely in their non-acting laps. Who has told them to put up or shut up? No one. Who has given them a deadline to act else they'll have no one acting on their behalf? No one.

The wimpy wisps of "we don't approve" are no less wimpy in writing or when propped up by the words "non-binding resolution." It's worthless, meaningless, and an unbelievable waste of time. Not one Democrat can say, "This servicemember's life was saved as the result of this action," thus it's crap.

The Democrats and Republicans both have failed miserably. When will the constituents of both sides hold their side's feet to the fire and tell them to get moving? The only actions and the only ones doing anything are the servicemembers themselves. Remember the troops? They’re the people both Democrats and Republicans focus on when their efforts to focus on the screw-ups of their opposition fail. Lots of shifting and lots of refocusing, and still nothing has been accomplished.

While both Democrats and Republicans come to the almighty defense of their leaders, the leaders themselves are doing nothing -- but isn't it quaint how the one thing they have managed to accomplish is getting their constituents mad at the other side? Isn’t it interesting how both sides can keep their constituents occupied with what the other side isn't doing -- thus shining the light away from what they themselves aren't doing?

Take stock of what your elected leader has done. What the other guys have or have not done will still be there while you do this; just take a moment to look at what your side has accomplished.

Afghanistan was invaded, putting bin Laden on the run - and then what happened?

Saddam Hussein was captured and his regime toppled - and then what happened?

The Democrats took the majority -- and then what happened?

The only answer can answer all three questions: lives were lost and are being lost while countless mouths keep right on eking hot air. Wars have been better fought -- and won -- with less gum flapping between groups of kids on the playground.

The wars will be won when there is peace and stability in the areas. We will have to settle for relative peace because our definition is much different from those who actually live in Iraq and Afghanistan (per women's rights, the safety of children, freedom of religion, etc). There may be things going on we don't think are peaceful, but that figure in to the Iraqi or Afghanistan definition.

It would also be nice if bin Laden were quite literally hanging around. Can we get an update - anybody?

How to get to a state of relative peace seems clear to me. I don't see the problem. I do see a problem. Those in the position to decide and do something are so focused on the other guy (Democrats and Republicans), they've all but forgotten about the enemy, our allies, and our troops.

The American system is set up to facilitate action with checks and balances in place to keep any one person/party from sneaking anything by without notice (assuming both sides thoroughly read the paperwork involved). Using this system of checks and balances as a reason for things moving slowly or not at all (as both sides have done -- for and against each other and themselves) is an abuse of the system.

If the Democrats really meant business, our troops would be on their way home. If the Republicans really meant business, we would already be engaged in talks with the Iraqi leadership. Right now, the latter is come-and-go whenever dueling date books line up just right with the phases of the moon.

There is an ulterior motive on both sides. Be it overt (stay there till we strike it rich or some such crap) or covert (passive aggressively harassing the opposing party until they cave), those involved are not representing their constituents (to include the troops on the ground) one damned bit.

I have yet to meet or hear from any person in support of this war who is also in support of staying the course with no definition of the course itself. Is it a golf course, an obstacle course, math course? What the hell is "the course"? It sounds like doublespeak for "I have no idea what to do next and/or instead, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to admit it."

The idea that opposing anything the administration suggests is the way to go is equally ludicrous. Remembering that nothing is happening, opposing it is just stupid. The Republicans and the Democrats both couldn't be more paralyzed by their collective, precedent-setting, passive-aggressive showdown. In light of the stalemates created both on the hill and in the combat areas, there would appear to be no alternative to smart bombs.

The first and smartest bomb would contain marijuana and it would be exploded over all combat areas throughout the world - perhaps to include some key points in the United States where violence rules many a child's day. These explosions should then be followed by humanitarian drops of substantial snack packets. Laugh or sneer, no one can tell me this wouldn't bring the conflicts to an abrupt halt and throw open the gates to communication and peaceful negotiation. The only drawback would be the number of children willing to attend and believe anything said in a D.A.R.E. presentation.

The second bomb would create an explosion of performance-enhancing pharmaceuticals over the capitol. The only drawback would be the number of Washington monuments erected shortly thereafter.

Do I hear any other ideas? No? All right then; bombs away already.

Satire: Bush To Invade Iran

2007-04-08T20:35:00.000+02:00

Conflicting comments from senior military officials prompts Bush to take sides and make a decision.

General Peter Pace, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, insists there is no evidence to support the idea that the Iranian government is supplying insurgents in Iraq with the ready-made bombs and other materials. Pace said some of the material can be traced to Iran and that U.S. forces have arrested Iranians. His assertion that Iran itself is not involved contradicts three senior military officials in Baghdad who have said the Iranian government is responsible for having provided Shiite militants in Iraq with bombs now blamed for the deaths of more U.S. troops.

"That's all I needed to hear," Bush said on his way into an emergency meeting he'd called shortly after hearing what he said were "the words of our proud patriots in combat. Pace isn't in combat. What does he know?"

Bush, Cheney, and Peppy the coffee guy emerged hours later to announce plans to invade Iran. Bush snickered at a press conference held later in the day saying, "If someone paid by me to agree with me doesn't agree with me, well, that's all she wrote. The cows have come home." Amid murmurs of "What the hell does that mean?" from the press corps, Bush was noticeably beside himself with glee when suggesting using the 20,000 troops "...I've sent to build up the force there..." to invade Iran.

When reminded that 20,000 additional troops haven't yet been sent and that the increase in troop numbers can be explained by the extensions of tours of those still there, Bush guffawed, "Six of one, half dozen of the other. A bird in the hand is less poop on the floor." Bush grew serious and red-faced in response to what he called "unpatriotic confrontation" when questioned about his loyalty to the war-weary troops.

"What the heck did you think I wanted more troops sent to Iraq for? To fill out the chow line? I am the terror that flaps in the night! I say troops will go into Italy, I mean Indonesia, crap, one of those 'I' countries. You're either with us or against us," at which point White House Press Secretary Tony Snow moved Tango-close to the President. Bush covered the mic, but could still be heard hissing, "Get off me!"

"If you make a product or material that somehow ends up in the hands of terrorists, I don't care how it got there," Bush smirked. "You're aiding the terrorists and we're coming after you."

General Pace held his ground. “That does not translate that the Iranian government per se, for sure, is directly involved in doing this. What it does say is that things made in Iran are being used in Iraq to kill coalition soldiers. There are all kinds of things that originate in the United States that end up in the hands of terrorists -- cell phone cases, heavy gauge wire, copper tubing, Paris Hilton videos -- and those things are also being used to kill coalition forces. Leave it to Bush to follow a path that will lead him to feel justified in invading his own damn country."

Some in the media say Pace's comments fall under the shadow of U.S. intelligence used to justify invading Iraq and therefore question his credibility. "Or," Pace shot back, "it raises credibility questions about this President and the people who are so damned afraid to contradict him. You're not questioning those who agree with him, are you? It doesn't matter and it hasn't mattered one damn bit what United States Military leaders say or advise. Bush is on his own track with his own train and no one else but Cheney is allowed in the play roo -- excuse me -- war room.”

Later, when Tony Snow emerged from under Bush' podium, he was asked if he was sure there are weapons coming out of Iran with the blessings of the government there. Snow replied, “Yes.” It wasn't immediately clear whether he was answering that question or one posed at the same time: "Are you Max Headroom's love child?"

Iran denies any involvement. Foreign Ministry spokesman Mohammad Ali Hossein said, "No one in Iran had sex with Max Headroom. Such accusations cannot be relied upon or be presented as evidence. The United States has a long history in fabricating evidence. Such charges are unacceptable.”

Tony Snow watched Hossein's broadcast with misty eyes and a trembling bottom lip. As he was being escorted from the room, he glanced back at the television and eked, "Mother?"

Americans, Know thy World: The Size of Countries A-L (Part One)

2007-04-08T20:33:00.000+02:00

Getting perspective: Comparing a country's total area to the total area of a US state gives us a better mental picture of a country’s size.

For most of us, perspective is reality no matter what the real deal might be. This is especially true for those who haven't had the opportunity to travel outside the United States and/or have a limited knowledge of other countries. Comparing the number of square miles of a country to the number of square miles of a state may offer a better mental picture of a country thought to be smaller or larger.

If you've studied or traveled through any of the states of the United States, then you have some idea how big or small a state is. Your experience and the following list can help you visualize or get a feel for how big or small a country is when comparing it to the size of a state. Some countries are so small, it's better to compare them to a city in the United States. Where this has been done, you will see both the city and the state. If you don't see an area of the world you're looking for (i.e.: Greenland), it would be because territories, colonies and dependencies were not included in this list.

The areas used are total, meaning bodies of water within the state/country's land area (and/or within the state/country's borders) have been included. Purists might disagree with this way of doing it, but the distance between borders is not less just because one doesn't include the water area (i.e.: Minnesota). The research for this list came from over 25 sources.

Unless otherwise noted, all comparisons to the United States include Alaska and Hawaii. For those who are more familiar with maps showing Alaska much smaller than it really is, a map showing Alaska's real relative size has been provided. If you would prefer a larger view of the first two maps, click on the image. To keep this page active, open the image in a new window.

Before you start, try making a few guesses about the sizes of other countries and then proceed to see how accurate you were.

A

Afghanistan is almost the size of Texas. Albania is about the size of Hawaii. Algeria is not quite four times bigger than Texas. Andorra is the size of Huntsville, Alabama. Angola is about three times the size of California. Antigua and Barbuda is slightly smaller than Huntsville, Alabama. Argentina is one-third the size of the United States. Armenia is slightly bigger than Massachusetts. Australia is approximately the size of the United States (excluding Alaska and Hawaii). Austria is slightly smaller than Maine. Azerbaijan is slightly larger than South Carolina.

B

Bahamas is larger than Juneau, Alaska but smaller than Sitka, Alaska. Bahrain is the size of Austin, Texas. Bangladesh is the size of Louisiana. Barbados is slightly larger than Montgomery, Alabama. Belarus is slightly smaller than Kansas. Belgium is approximately the size of Maryland. Belize is about the size of New Hampshire. Benin is about the size of Tennessee. Bhutan is half the size of Indiana.

Bolivia is slightly smaller than California and Texas combined. Bosnia and Herzegovina is about half the size of Kentucky. Botswana is twice the size of Arizona. Brazil is the size of the United States without most of Alaska. Brunei is about the size of Delaware. Bulgaria is the size of Tennessee. Burkina Faso is slightly larger than Colorado. Burma (see Myanmar). Burundi is slightly larger than Massachusetts.

C

Cambodia is the size of Missouri. Cameroon is the size of Arkansas, Illinois and Missouri combined. Canada is larger than the United States. Cape Verde is slightly larger than Rhode Island. Central African Republic is twice the size of New Mexico. Chad is about 85% the size of Alaska. Chile is the size of Montana, North Dakota and South Dakota combined. China is the size of the United States without Minnesota. Colombia is the size of Idaho, Montana, Washington and Wyoming combined.

Comoros is smaller than Jacksonville, Florida. Congo, Republic of, is three times the size of Pennsylvania. Congo, Democratic Republic of, is one-fourth the size of the United States. Costa Rica is more than twice the size of New Hampshire. Côte d'Ivoire is a little larger than New Mexico. Croatia is twice the size of Massachusetts. Cuba is about the size of Virginia. Cyprus is about one and half times the size of Delaware. Czech Republic is slightly smaller than South Carolina.

D

Denmark is half the size of South Carolina. Djibouti is slightly larger than New Jersey. Dominica is slightly larger than Lexington, Kentucky. Dominican Republic is the size of Vermont and New Hampshire combined.

E

Ecuador is about equal in size to Nevada. East Timor is slightly larger than Connecticut. Egypt is nearly one and half times the size of Texas. El Salvador is slightly smaller than New Jersey. Equatorial Guinea is twice the size of Connecticut. Eritrea is about the size of Pennsylvania. Estonia is about twice the size of New Jersey. Ethiopia is almost three times the size of Montana.

F

Fiji is about the size of Connecticut and Rhode Island combined. Finland is twice the size of Florida. France is twice the size of Colorado.

G

Gabon is slightly smaller than Colorado. The Gambia is twice the size of Delaware. Georgia is three times larger than New Jersey. Germany is more than twice the size of Wisconsin. Ghana is slightly smaller than Oregon. Greece is slightly smaller than Louisiana. Grenada is slightly smaller than Atlanta, Georgia. Guatemala is the size of Tennessee. Guinea is slightly smaller than Oregon. Guinea-Bissau is slightly less than New Jersey and Connecticut combined. Guyana is the size of Idaho.

H

Haiti is about the size of Massachusetts. Honduras is slightly larger than Virginia. Holland (see The Netherlands). Hungary is the size of Indiana.

I

Iceland is the size of Kentucky. India is one-third the size of the United States. Indonesia (17,000 islands) covers more area than Alaska and South Dakota combined. Iran is slightly smaller than Alaska. Iraq is slightly larger than California. Ireland is about half the size of Arkansas. Israel is slightly smaller than New Jersey. Italy is slightly larger than Arizona.

J

Jamaica is a little smaller than Connecticut. Japan is slightly smaller than Montana. Jordan is slightly smaller than Indiana.

K

Kazakhstan is slightly more than one and a half times the size of Alaska. Kenya is about twice the size of Arizona. Kiribati is about the size of Kansas City, Missouri. Kuwait is three times the size of Delaware. Kyrgyzstan is about the same size as Nebraska.

L

Laos is twice the size of Pennsylvania. Latvia is slightly larger than West Virginia. Lebanon is slightly smaller than Connecticut. Lesotho is the slightly less than half the size of West Virginia. Liberia is slightly larger than Tennessee. Libya is one-sixth larger than Alaska. Liechtenstein is not quite as big as Washington, D.C. Lithuania is about half the size of Alabama. Luxembourg is about twice the size of Los Angeles, California.

This concludes Part One of "Americans, Know Thy World." If you made any guesses before you started, how have you done so far? If you found an error, please feel free to post the correction in the comments section.

Americans, Know thy World: The Size of a Country (Part Two: M-Z)

2007-04-08T20:29:00.000+02:00

Getting perspective: Comparing a country's total area to the total area of a US state gives us a better mental picture of a country’s size.

Those of you who are wondering where countries A-L are lurking need look no further: Americans, Know thy World: The Size of a Country (Part One: A-L). If you've already perused countries A-L, go ahead and scroll through the text and on down to the list.

For most of us, perspective is reality no matter what the real deal might be. This is especially true for those who haven't had the opportunity to travel outside the United States and/or have a limited knowledge of other countries. Comparing the number of square miles of a country to the number of square miles of a state may offer a better mental picture of a country thought to be smaller or larger.

If you've studied or traveled through any of the states of the United States, then you have some idea how big or small a state is. Your experience and the following list can help you visualize or get a feel for how big or small a country is when comparing it to the size of a state. Some countries are so small, it's better to compare them to a city in the United States. Where this has been done, you will see both the city and the state. If you don't see an area of the world you're looking for (i.e.: Greenland), it would be because territories, colonies and dependencies were not included in this list.

The areas used are total, meaning bodies of water within the state/country's land area (and/or within the state/country's borders) have been included. Purists might disagree with this way of doing it, but the distance between borders is not less just because one doesn't include the water area (i.e.: Minnesota). The research for this list came from over 25 sources.

Unless otherwise noted, all comparisons to the United States include Alaska and Hawaii. For those who are more familiar with maps showing Alaska much smaller than it really is, a map showing Alaska's real relative size has been provided. If you would prefer a larger view of the first two maps and the very last map, click on the image. To keep this page active, open the image in a new window.

Before you start, try making a few guesses about the sizes of other countries and then proceed to see how accurate you were.

M

Macedonia is slightly larger than Vermont. Madagascar is twice the size of Arizona. Malawi is about the size of Pennsylvania. Malaysia is almost twice the size of Wisconsin. Maldives is about the size of Little Rock, Arkansas. Mali is four-fifths the size of Alaska. Malta: the five Maltese islands (Malta, Gozo, Comino, Comminotto, and Filflawith), have a combined area slightly larger than Athens, Georgia. The Marshall Islands comprise an area slightly larger than Washington, DC. Mauritania is more than one and a half times the size of Texas.

Mauritius is slightly smaller than Jacksonville, Florida. Mexico is about one-seventh larger than Alaska. Micronesia, Federated States of, is slightly larger than Austin, Texas. Moldova is slightly larger than Maryland. Monaco is about the size of Florence, Kansas. Mongolia is slightly smaller than Alaska. Montenegro is roughly the size of Connecticut. Morocco is about one-tenth larger than California. Mozambique is almost twice the size of California. Myanmar (Burma) is slightly smaller than Texas.

N

Namibia is less than half the size of Alaska. Nauru is about the size of Trenton, New Jersey. Nepal is almost the size of Arkansas. The Netherlands is twice the size of New Jersey. New Zealand is about the size of Colorado. Nicaragua is slightly larger than Mississippi. Niger is four-fifths the size of Alaska. Nigeria is one-third larger than Texas. North Korea is slightly larger than Pennsylvania. Norway is slightly larger than New Mexico.

O

Oman is the size of Kansas.

P

Pakistan is nearly twice the size of California. Palau is about the size of Norman, Oklahoma. Palestinian State (proposed) West Bank and Gaza Strip is about the size of Delaware. Panama is slightly smaller than South Carolina. Papua New Guinea is about one-tenth larger than California. Paraguay is larger than Montana. Peru is five-sixths the size of Alaska. The Philippines is about the size of Arizona. Poland is the size of New Mexico. Portugal is slightly smaller than Indiana.

Q

Qatar is about twice the size of Delaware.

R

Romania is slightly smaller than Wyoming. Russia is almost one and three-quarters larger than the United States. Rwanda is slightly larger than Vermont.

S

South Korea is slightly larger than Indiana. St. Kitts and Nevis is the size of Boulder City, Nevada. St. Lucia is the size of Chicago, Illinois. St. Vincent and the Grenadines is the size of Birmingham, Alabama. Samoa is smaller than Rhode Island. San Marino is about the size of Powhatan Creek, Virginia. São Tomé and Príncipe is slightly larger than Dallas, Texas. Saudi Arabia is one-fifth larger than Alaska. Senegal is slightly smaller than South Dakota.

Serbia is slightly smaller than Indiana. Seychelles is a little smaller than Albuquerque, New Mexico. Sierra Leone is half the size of Illinois. Singapore is smaller than Forth Worth, Texas. Slovakia is about the size of New Hampshire and Vermont combined. Slovenia is the size of New Jersey. Solomon Islands is slightly larger than Vermont. Somalia is slightly smaller than Texas. South Africa is nearly three times the size of California.

Spain is about the size of Arizona and Utah combined. Sri Lanka is slightly larger than West Virginia. Sudan is about one-fourth the size of the United States. Suriname is slightly smaller than Wisconsin. Swaziland is larger than Connecticut, but smaller than New Jersey. Sweden is twice the size of Minnesota. Switzerland is about the size of Connecticut and Massachusetts combined. Syria is slightly larger than North Dakota.

T

Taiwan is slightly larger than Massachusetts and Connecticut combined. Tajikistan is slightly smaller than the state of Illinois. Tanzania is three times bigger than New Mexico. Thailand is about twice the size of Oregon. Togo is more than twice the size of Vermont. Tonga is about the size of Lexington, Kentucky. Trinidad and Tobago is about the size of Anchorage, Alaska. Tunisia is twice the size of South Carolina. Turkey is more than twice the size of Montana. Turkmenistan (formerly Turkmenia) is about twice the size of Oregon. Tuvalu is slightly smaller than Hastings, Minnesota.

U

Uganda is twice the size of Pennsylvania. Ukraine is more than twice the size of Arizona. United Arab Emirates is slightly smaller than Maine.

United Kingdom consists of Great Britain (England 50,334 sq mi , Wales 8,019 sq mi and Scotland 30,414 sq mi ) and Northern Ireland (slightly larger than Connecticut), and is twice the size of New York State. The United States is less than half the size of Russia. Uruguay is about the size of Oklahoma. Uzbekistan is about one-tenth larger than California.

V

Vanuatu is slightly smaller than Connecticut. Vatican City (Holy See) is about the size of Washington, Nebraska. Venezuela is a third larger than Texas. Vietnam is about the size of Missouri and Iowa combined.

W

Western Sahara is about the size of Colorado.

X

None.

Y

Yemen is slightly less than twice the size of Colorado.

Z

Zaire (see Congo, Democratic Republic of). Zimbabwe is slightly larger than Montana. Zambia is about one-tenth larger than Texas.

This concludes "Americans, Know Thy World." If you found an error, please feel free to post the correction in the comments section below. I hope you enjoyed this whirlwind tour of the globe. If you made any guesses before you started, how did you do? If you feel inspired to do so, I encourage you to do further research into one or more countries.

For those who made it all the way through both lists and who fancy themselves incurably curious armchair researchers, here is an added bonus. The international territory of Antarctica (at the South Pole) boasts an area of 5.5 million square miles in the summer. It is smaller than Russia, but larger than the United States and Mexico combined. In the winter, the area becomes about the size of Russia. Conversely, there is very little land area around the North Pole (image, right).

Happy Trails!

William M. Arkin is a Big, Fat, Passive-Aggressive Idiot

2007-02-09T02:27:00.000+01:00

How's the altitude of that horse, Mr. Arkin?

In response to Richard Engel's report on NBC Nightly News wherein a few troops were asked for their opinion of American support and they weren't positive, Washington Post writer William M. Arkin espoused, "I'm all for everyone expressing their opinion, even those who wear the uniform of the United States Army. But I also hope that military commanders took the soldiers aside after the story and explained to them why it wasn't for them to disapprove of the American people."

"Even" them, huh? Tiptoeing on the edge of the only direct statement he makes throughout the entire article, Arkin says the American people can disapprove of what servicemembers say, but it isn't for servicemembers to disapprove of what Americans say. Turn around Arkin, so I can get a good look at your other face.

Taking issue with the soldiers' frustrations, Arkin says the soldiers "should be grateful that the American public, which by all polls overwhelmingly disapproves of the Iraq war and the President's handling of it, do still offer their support to them, and their respect."

I've been opposed to this war from the beginning (the President's "handling" of it aside; I would more call it "dropping, picking up, slobbering profusely, dropping"). I support the troops and don't support the war with the full realization that my way of thinking doesn't mean they should or should not be grateful for it. Where in the Sam Hill does Arkin get off suggesting such an obligation even exists? Let's look at Arkin's support of the troops.

Look closely. Here it is:

You don't see anything because the extent of Arkin's contributions to the support of the troops can be summed up (as I were - "summed" implies there is one thing to be added to another thing, and there is no one thing to be added to anything else), rather his efforts can be described with one word: nothing.

His contribution to the anti-war effort (not to be confused with the war effort - because you know, there really isn't one; there's a war and there is hope that troops will return safely, but outside of that, American effort is confined to sitting around having opinions per Bushy's instructions that we all go on about our lives), is that "Through every Abu Ghraib and Haditha, through every rape and murder, the American public has indulged those in uniform, accepting that the incidents were the product of bad apples or even of some administration or command order."

Hear that, guys? You've been "indulged." We're shopping while you're being shot at and shot. If the troops are "indulged," what does that make Americans? Spoiled rotten brats with a sense of entitlement that borders on mental illness, I'm thinking. Do your math, Arkin. It'll do wonders for your perspective. How many hundreds of thousands of troops have been in and out of Iraq, Afghanistan, and quite a few other places recently that most Americans don't even know about? How many thousands of them have served in combat once, twice, three times without event? How many dozens of them have done something that landed them in a court martial? How do those percentages stack up against the number of criminals and crimes of any given city in the United States (where, coincidentally, none of the same conditions exist as in Iraq)?

Arkin continues unabated because no one was there to unplug his computer. "Sure, it is the junior enlisted men who go to jail. But even at anti-war protests, the focus is firmly on the White House and the policy. We don't see very many 'baby killer' epithets being thrown around these days, no one in uniform is being spit upon."

This logic reminds me of those who insist any man-made disaster resulting in less than many millions dead isn't that big of a deal because Hitler set the bar, and anyone who stays under it is still okay. The Vietnam war protesters, having used assault to emphasize their points, set the bar for what is unacceptable behavior toward United States military troops, the illegality of assault apparently notwithstanding. Anything less, Arkin seems to say, falls within the realm of acceptable. He's suggesting that, because the troops aren't assaulted, they are therefore supported.

This line of thinking would explain Arkin's next absurdity. "So, we pay the soldiers a decent wage," he says, "take care of their families, provide them with housing and medical care and vast social support systems and ship obscene amenities into the war zone for them, we support them in every possible way, and their attitude is that we should in addition roll over and play dead, defer to the military and the generals and let them fight their war, and give up our rights and responsibilities to speak up because they are above society?"

Arkin could not have made it more obvious that he has no idea what he's talking about. What kind of military veteran conveniently forgets what military life is really like? The kind that served for a whopping four years and never served in combat. Let us consider Arkin's assertions in detail:

• Servicemembers had their say. They did not say or imply that any American should "...give up our rights and responsibilities to speak up..." nor did they say or imply they are "above society." While we're on the subject, what responsibilities are you talking about, Arkin? Show me a responsible American and I'll show someone who has never blamed someone else for their own (insert your personal complaint here).

Responsibility involves action. In that regard, Cindy Sheehan has you dead to rights, Arkin. No matter how misguided, she leaves the house once in a while. Keyboarding is not and will never be considered an aerobic activity. How many breaths would it take for you to even utter the word "responsibility"?

• If you took the number of hours any given military servicemember puts in while deployed and/or in combat and paid them the current minimum wage - even without time and a half for overtime, that amount would exceed the amount they currently receive. Subtract the number of hours they sleep and minimum wage still pays better. If this is a "decent wage," I wonder why more Americans aren't lining up to be on call in a war zone 24 hours a day, seven days a week, for six to fourteen months straight.

Before you go there, Arkin, yes it is true: military servicemembers signed up for that life. Also true: you didn’t. No balls, no opinion. Wait, it’s America. No balls means you have the right to go on and on without being in the least bit productive or inconvenienced while others who do have balls defend your right to slam them from your recliner.

• The American people do not take care of any family within the military system. If this were true, for whatever reason(s) you could possibly be asserting, the same could be said of the government with respect to every non-military American family.

• The taxpayer provides the funds for base housing (not always available and rarely available to junior enlisted because of housing shortages and long waiting lists), medical care (not always available and often at or over a half-day's drive away, especially with respect to the wounded servicemember) and amenities (as if the war zone were a Marriott; good one, Arkin).

The “vast” social support system varies greatly with location and is a product of the military community, not you. Try again. Since every military servicemember is also a taxpayer, watch as the “we provide them” argument flies out the window and lands with a thud.

• "Every possible way" of supporting the troops would include supporting what they're doing. I’m not saying you should necessarily support what they’re doing; I’m saying you are a hypocritical ass to suggest you are supporting them in “every possible way” when, by your own admission, you are not.

Speaking of majorities, the speculative comment made at the outset of the Arkin diatribe, that "the soldiers were expressing a majority opinion common amongst the ranks" is flat out wrong. More troops are opposed to the war and the way its been handled than support it and approve of its handling. Jesus, Arkin. Don't you read anything besides your own writing?

• "Roll over and play dead" isn't what the troops want Americans to do. This is precisely what American troops would like Americans to stop doing. C'mon Arkin. When you saw the broadcast, did you have the sound down that far or is your hearing that bad?

Arkin's anticlimactic and predictably solution-free conclusion is that those in the Engle report are "...young and naïve and are frustrated with their own lack of progress and the never changing situation in Iraq. Cut off from society and constantly told that everyone supports them, no wonder the debate back home confuses them."

They are someone’s children, Arkin, but they are not children. It's safe to say they are not your children. They are no more confused than you are prepared to hop a plane to Iraq. They're not told everyone supports them and it would be impossible for you to prove they were, especially in light of the very report with which you take issue.

Arkin suggests that Americans ponder what it is we owe those in uniform. He doesn't say what we owe them and might even be suggesting that we owe them nothing. Admitting, "we'd be having a different discussion" were there a draft, he doesn't say how or why it would be different.

Arkin can forever claim he was misinterpreted (the new cop out for the busy professional) because he didn't say what is owed, just that we should question it. He didn't say how the discussion would be different, only that it would be. Remember, too that he read into the servicemembers' expressed frustrations -- saying the troops said they felt "above society" and suggested we should all disband with our rights -- but takes issue with the troops reading into what Americans have to say.

Scoot over, bald eagle. Let's hear it for the new national animal: the big, fat, passive-aggressive American male.

Taking on Reality TV: From American Idol to Dateline’s “To Catch a Predator”

2007-02-09T02:26:00.000+01:00

If you've seen one episode of Fox's American Idol, Bobby Goldstein's Cheaters, Dateline's "To Catch a Predator,” or any of the other reality TV programs, you’ve seen them all. The difference between all of them and one of them is that on "To Catch a Predator," the bad guy goes to jail.

Every reality TV show is a set-up, but how it goes from there seems to be what differentiates “To Catch a Predator” from other reality TV. Elsewhere in reality programming land, consequences are choreographed and edited, making the whole idea of reality TV a misnomer. “To Catch a Predator” is real. Everything else is surreal.

While failed (and unnecessarily ridiculed and humiliated) American Idol contenders don't reach the golden ring, Simon Cowell gets to showcase his glaring lack of diplomacy week after week without being shot. His cohorts in crimes of indecency sit idol-y by and often lean away from his crass assessments, presumably because they don’t want to be hit by the shrapnel of an inevitable hit. Security may be tight to keep Cowellettes and Abduligans in check, but it’s more likely that Simon’s potshots are what have the guards on high alert. They know he’s going to get it one of these days.

Idol viewers are no less culpable – they’re just not seen or heard by the contestants. If, as many a loyal Idol-ite has told me, the reason for watching is to catch the stars before they’re stars, then the auditions would hold no allure. The Idol competition (an adulterated version of Star Search, whose creators either had too much respect for their fellow man to air the auditions or were edged out by those who were willing to lower the bar) would be all that’s needed if that were true. Idol viewers remind me of those who say they watch car races to see cars go around in circles until someone wins.

Those who sought out the help of Cheaters to prove their loved one is cheating feel the blow of their suspicions and may or may not be able to get on with their lives without the seemingly compassionate Joey Greco leading them through every move. (Could the guy’s motivation for provoking anger and tears be any more transparent?)

The guy/gal who cheated gets a few minutes of exposure to others who are looking for someone just like that. What should be win/lose is lose/win, but every now and then it’s lose/lose, like when a cheater gets left and/or pummeled by both lovers. The show remains popular because instant gratification seekers get what they want and those who can delay gratification eventually get what they want.

It’s all real in the academic sense of the word, but the consequences of each and every person’s actions are not. In the real world, Simon Cowell and Joey Greco would be pushing up daisies. Too, if these programs were less staged for entertainment value, we all might just get a little something out of it. As it is, we roll off our couches with less compassion and less interest in people as human beings.

One show changed, or rather challenged, some of that.

Some might argue that “To Catch a Predator” is not reality TV. It certainly can’t be argued with any logic or stamina that it is some sort of journalism or a public service. I love “To Catch a Predator” and so do most people who have been on the receiving end of what happens when balls of shit walking around in human form are not stopped. To call it journalism or a public service, though - that’s a stretch. It’s also been said the program brings unwanted attention to the families of the arrested, attention they would otherwise not have known.

The consequences for the families of the suspects are tragic, but not because Dateline airs the show. The consequences are tragic for the families because their loved one was found to be a ball of shit walking around in human form. He who would argue that this discovery would be more palatable on a local rather than national scale need only talk to the family members of those who were discovered, but never recorded.

When the ratings go down, and they will, “To Catch a Predator” will not continue to air. NBC isn’t PBS. This deflates any notion of public service. It’s certainly not reporting the news. News is “Eleven suspected pedophiles were arrested.” Dateline, like all reality programming, appeals to our inner-voyeur. Thus, out the journalistic window goes the journalistic defense.

What “To Catch a Predator” does is educate a society that had insisted on ignorance. For centuries, the masses have convinced themselves that pedophiles are not only few and far between, but that they look like trolls. This notion was used against many a victim (“He couldn’t have done that, dear - he’s an upstanding citizen in the community, not a troll”).

In many cases, “To Catch a Predator” makes life safer for those children who would’ve been victimized had the aforementioned balls of shit not been stopped. It’s also hefty vindication for some of those who have already suffered at the hands of pedophiles. Personally, I can’t get enough of seeing these men taken down and away.

Those who would question the legality or ethics of Dateline’s procedures need only remember one thing and ask themselves one question: The men they catch will never suffer as much as those they’ve victimized or intended to victimize, so what’s with all the pity? You can stomach Simon Cowell’s use of shame, watch as emotions are provoked, and join the camera as it bears down on the disloyal and goes into private homes in search of criminals, but you can’t hack a parade o’ pedophilia? The irony of “To Catch a Predator” being too much reality for even the most reality-addicted – now that’s stomach churning.

Dateline is doing a great thing. I don’t care if they make money while they do it. I don’t care if they stop airing it tomorrow. The secret is out and there’s no going back. I only care that someone bothered to go public with what was, for some reason, private information: Pedophiles are active, they are everywhere, they look like ministers and doctors, and these are their names.

There’s a reality you can use.

Kansas City Woman Miscarries After Traffic Stop

2007-02-09T02:24:00.000+01:00

Police suspensions and a lawsuit followed Sofia Salva’s unheeded insistence that she need to go to the hospital.

Kansas City police saw a woman driver place a fake tag in the window of her car and pulled her over. During the stop, 33-year-old Sofia Salva asked repeatedly for help, saying she was three months pregnant and bleeding. The officers continued with their tasks, to include running her name through their system, and subsequently arrested her. Sofia was released the next day. After going to the hospital, she miscarried.

There are those of us in society who, inexperienced with the profound likelihood of violence and sometimes death with even the most routine parts of our jobs, would have taken Sofia to the hospital right then and there. The more experienced among us, those we have entrusted with the care and safety of our community and who do have said experience, did not.

Sofia was not a law-abiding citizen. She was not known for her kindness toward others or respect for property boundaries, and she treated traffic laws like a cafeteria. None of this is justification for the officers not taking her to the hospital. All of this, however, is the explanation.

For her part, Sofia knew she was in distress and did not call 911 for an ambulance while she was still at the store. It comes as no surprise to those who are familiar with people who consider themselves above the law, to learn of someone who resisted inviting that which they see as associated with law enforcement - even at their own expense.

Did Sofia weigh her options and decide it was better to take herself to the hospital rather than risk calling for an ambulance? She knew she had warrants. She knew she was driving illegally. Given her experience as a criminal, it’s a good bet she also knew she'd be arrested, eventually, if she had called an ambulance.

It will be interesting to see how this plays out as Sofia’s $25,000+ lawsuit proceeds. Will she be able to prove she miscarried solely as a result of the way the police handled the situation, even though she was not physically mishandled relative to any other arrested person? Will she be able to convince the court that she was on her way to the hospital? If so, will she then be able to convince anyone her decision to drive herself rather than calling for an ambulance was in the best interest of her health and the welfare of her baby?

Had Sofia simply minded her vehicular Ps and Qs all these years, she might have delivered a full-term, healthy baby in six months. She might also have miscarried at home, as it is her word against her actions where she was really going. It’s worth noting she was not stopped for speeding. This is at least puzzling given her impatient angst during the traffic stop.

Ironically, Sofia has taken litigious issue with the way she was treated, suggesting she holds the policemen responsible for her miscarriage, even though some of her outstanding warrants were for maltreatment of children.

Magazine Review: mental_floss

2007-02-09T02:23:00.000+01:00

A study has been done: mental_floss is not thick enough.

An informal and highly unscientific study has been done and the results are in: mental_floss magazine is just not thick enough.

It is touted as the place "where knowledge junkies get their fix," but any addict worth their weight in grey matter will tell you mental_floss will only stave the craving until "Hey, is that the last page already? Damn, it's 30 more days until the next issue!"

This packed to the back, cover-to-cover info-mag is more than just stuff you didn't know and even stuff you didn't know you knew. If ever there were an adult (grown, not groan) version of Sesame Street, with it's stressless stream of images and quick, quirky deliveries, mental_floss is it. No one article is too long not to toss the magazine at those with a reading aversion and say, "Here, read this. It'll only take a minute."

There appears to be no end to the topics and teachings, both current and historical, covered and uncovered by "el presidente" William E. Pearson and a staff of thousands (or eight - not including various office animals).

The aforementioned study revealed a five member household could consume an issue of mental_floss left in the lavatory in just under a week. The study also found that when one college dorm resident is the recipient of a subscription and an issue is left unattended, that issue can put as many as fifty campus miles on its odometer (if it had one) in as little as ten days.

mental_floss is no less privy to intellectual digestion outside the domestic setting. An issue received by a United States servicemember stationed with Marine Forces Europe in Boeblingen, Germany is rumored to have made its way to and through the United States European Command in nearby Vaihingen, where it then became part of a care package headed for Iraq. This issue is said to have eventually found a home in the waiting room of a stateside chiropractor by the name of Bonebrake - all before the next issue hit the stands. Seriously, that's what I was told. I mean, that's what the study discovered.

As a water closet companion, mental_floss is the only reasonable alternative to the sentimental tales of Chicken Soup for the Soul and the dry musings of The Wall Street Journal. As a nightstand staple, it is the only practical replacement for everything from Reader’s Digest and National Geographic to Popular Mechanics and The Smithsonian (although it is not recommended that one actually replace National Geographic or The Smithsonian -- perhaps just placing mental_floss on the top of the pile as an amuse bouche).

In short, the only criticism offered by this reviewer is that anything advertised as a fix should at least come in a drip. Fortunately, mental_floss’ website can mend the yen left by the one-hour reader that is the magazine. Unfortunately, it might be difficult to convince anyone what you’re really up to when carrying your laptop into the lavatory.

Dreaming of a Good Job

2007-02-09T02:22:00.000+01:00

You might think the dream catchers are the rich, but that's not so.

A whopping 84 percent of those polled in the online job site CareerBuilder.com career survey said they were not in their dream jobs, meaning they didn't consider their work to be fun. That's right; 6,169 full-time workers polled and not even 1,000 of them are livin' the dream. If you apply that result on a national scale (and pretend all 300 million of us are full-time workers, which obviously we are not because minors, athletes, and politicians don't count), that's 252 million people totin' that barge and liftin' that bale while the other 48 million are doin' it to'in it.

You might think the dream catchers are the rich, but that's not so. The rich are happy because they can afford "adventurous and exotic” sex. That's a whole different kind of dream. I'm not making that up - go check yourself.

The dreamiest jobs are held by those in police work, firefighting (both at 35 percent), and teaching (32 percent). This result bodes well for those employers seeking workers who are more interested in making a difference than making money.

Answering on behalf of their childhood dreams, 22 percent of those polled said they wanted to be a firefighter, 16 percent wanted to be a professional dancer, and 14 percent wanted to be president. Apparently the career counselors of yesteryear did not have but a few options from which the children could pick. This would explain some of the loftier career choices. Those polled were not broken down by gender. That's too bad because I would like to know how many of the 17 percent who said they wanted to be a princess were female and how many of the 14 percent who said they wanted to be a cowboy were male.

Those least pleased with their jobs hail from the service industry, manufacturing (both 9 percent), and retail (10 percent). I don't think anyone needed a poll for that one. Frankly I'm surprised the numbers look that good. When you combine these percentages with the cities boasting the least number of dreamers fulfilled, you'll want to avoid places like San Diego, Phoneix, Detroit, Atlanta, and Miami. If you want to increase your odds of running into someone who is working their dream, you'll have to book your next flight to Boston, Sacramento, San Francisco, Philadelphia, Salt Lake City, Dallas, or Portland.

Respondents were entered into a contest held by The Walt Disney Company. The winners will get to work for a day in a Disney theme park. Do they get to pick the job, Mr. Iger? I don't mean to be disrespectful, but aren't the majority of the positions within a Disney theme park part of the service industry (see above)? So you're going to take a handful of despondent dreamers already stuck in jobs they don't like and put them behind brooms and lunch counters. Oh, joy.

It really is a small world after all.

Making Babies for the Me-Generation

2007-01-21T21:57:00.000+01:00

Here ye, would-be parents: If you can't run with the big dogs, stick with the baby dolls.

If you're wondering just how self-centered and me-focused the average American has become, you need look no further than how that average citizen regards their offspring. Before they're brought into the world, those who haven't yet joined the party are at the mercy of those already in attendance.

If you can't hold it, bring it!

Colleen Pavelka opted for an early delivery on January 19th because her husband might have missed the Saints-Bears playoff had she waited for the baby to come on its own. It's entirely possible the baby would have waited until after its January 22nd due date to greet the world, but for Colleen and her husband Mark, that wasn't a risk worth taking.

Given the importance of football in the Pavelka household, and how seemingly okay the Pavelkas were with this decision, one wonders how many more times the new baby will be forced to accommodate Daddy's addiction and Mommy's subservience.

Would you like that with fries?

Meanwhile, Cara Reynolds of Collingswood, New Jersey, is not happy with those who are critical of using embryo screening as a way to produce a child with a disability. Reynolds is a dwarf and wants a child who is also a dwarf. She had considered embryo screening, but now plans to adopt a dwarf baby. "You cannot tell me that I cannot have a child who's going to look like me," Reynolds said. "It's just unbelievably presumptuous and they're playing God."

Who's playing God? Presumably it would be anyone with their hand in creating a child who, without interference, would never have otherwise existed. Cara would have us believe it is not those who use this cafeteria approach to baby making, but rather those who would disallow it.

The debate centers on the definition of "normal." Many within deaf and dwarf cultures don't consider themselves disabled. To some dwarf and deaf would-be parents, designing a child like themselves is no different than designing a child with a particular hair color or talent in mind.

Maybe, just maybe it isn't about you.

Perhaps what all of these would-be parents are missing is the ability to refocus outside themselves in preparation for the most important task of their lives – a mindset not lost on many of us who are already parents. Deliberately creating a child to one’s specifications, as if a child were a car or a house, is probably the most selfish thing I can think of, second only to abandoning a baby who wasn’t born just so - you know, like they do in male-obsessed cultures when a child is born sans penis. Sure, the latter is considerably more tragic - and it doesn’t make the former any less tragic.

My children wear glasses, take thyroid medication, and have ADHD. These things have impacted their experiences and have come to define them as people. Too, who they are (as a result of what they were born with) has had a profound impact on my life as a person and as a parent. Would they, given the opportunity, change these things about themselves? Noting my quick temper and crippling fear of heights, would they have preferred my trying to make them more like me? Since they can't answer until after they're born, wouldn't it be -- in Cara's words -- unbelievably presumptuous to answer for them by way of embryonic screening?

It would have been reprehensible to tweak away nearsightedness, hyperactivity, or a hypoactive thyroid. For all I know these very traits, if you will, are the flipsides of their artistic talent, their humor, and their compassion. They wouldn’t be the people they are today had they been born differently - which is to say, they wouldn't be who they are had they been born to selfish, myopic parents.

If you can’t deal with a normal or abnormal child, regardless of how you define either term, then you don’t deserve to be a parent. Parenting is a privilege, not a right - just ask Mother Nature. Those of you who really think you have the right to play God (yes, Colleen and Cara, that’s you) don’t need medical technology. All you need is Toys-R-Us.

Equal at Birth, Not in Life

2006-12-29T18:30:00.000+01:00

Those who can, do. Those who can’t should not expect the rest of us to consider them equals.

When I was in sixth grade, Sister Mabel taught us how to multiply and divide fractions. Unlike my previous teachers, Sister Mabel taught us in a way I could understand. Up until then, I was a mathematical moron, so this was a huge deal to me. Finally, I had broken the code and could step through the club doors.

Sister Mabel divided the room into two lines by gender. It was a relay race of working fractions at the chalkboard. Nine girls were indifferent and eleven boys were loud. I couldn't wait for my turn, as I was sure I could crush the trash-talking boys into oblivion.

Once it was my turn, I took the chalk from my defeated teammate and proceeded to whisk away the boys' hope of triumph. I solved problem after problem with confidence and clarity. I overcame my mathematical incompetence and quieted the other line's cockiness with each stroke of chalk. It was my proudest academic moment - until the girls became restless.

We girls had been taught fairness and sensitivity to a fault, to the point where teamwork and camaraderie were considered liabilities instead of assets. As the only granddaughter of more than 20 grandchildren, I was too familiar with losing to boys and was determined to take this win all the way home.

Instead of cheering me on, the girls demanded someone else get a turn at the board. The boys cheered and the girls didn’t seem to know why. I stood my ground. I was sure my teammates could be swayed by the knowledge that defeating the boys would give all of us girls something to hold over them through every game of kickball, dodgeball, and four-square. The boys would know our fury and eat it for lunch for the rest of their lives.

Sister Mabel tried to get the other girls behind me, but they would have none of it. She uttered some nonsense about democracy and I was cast aside. I conceded my chalk and unfairly became a part of a group that lost so badly, the points I'd scored didn't even matter. The boys rightly sneered away my achievement. I was on the losing team and that's all that mattered - to them and me. The girls wrongly touted the number of points I'd won, as if this were some kind of salve for the wound they'd inflicted.

Years later, my son and daughter were caught in a similar situation. Their teams were co-ed, and the demon of fairness would once again rear its ugly head. For them it was not the benched team members who would set the stage. It was the teacher himself who decided each player would be given but one word to spell.

Some did spell the words correctly because they had studied. Some didn’t because they hadn’t. In the end there was no final score even though a score had been kept. It was thrown out, much to the chagrin of those who had succeeded. The moral of the story was that everyone was a winner. This, even though not every child knew how to spell.

The education system attended by my children did also see fit to award every child for their efforts at the end of the school year. My ADHD daughter was given “Most Improved,” nine years in a row. At the beginning of every school year, she and her teacher would go ‘round and ‘round until about March. Only then would the teacher give up and follow the suggestions I’d set upon his/her desk on day one. Not miraculously, improvement followed.

My daughter had no use for awards (most ADHD children don’t) and she didn’t suffer when, in high school, they were no longer offered. My son, however, did not take it kindly when, year after elementary year, he was passed up for civic awards in favor of “best artist.” Yes, he could draw very well. He could also, because of his experiences living with his sister, diplomatically negotiate a way out of hell’s worst – for himself or on the behalf of others.

His compassion, his willingness to see the need where others couldn’t, and his ability to say just the right thing at just the right time was unequalled by his peers and lauded by his teachers.

Nonetheless, the rule of fairness thumbed its nose at him. The child who bullied others during school hours, but who sacrificed watching cartoons to pick up trash on the side of the road every Saturday morning, was deemed the more civic-minded and thusly rewarded – not the child who might one day bring peace to the Middle East.

This skewed application of fairness is now being felt by more than just myself and my Marine husband because the test to license U.S. military and dependent drivers stationed in Germany has undergone revision to make the test easier. This was done in response to complaints from those who had failed the test. They asserted the test was too hard.

Too, those in positions of authority didn’t like that that as much as 45 percent of incoming personnel couldn’t get their vehicles out of the holding lot (or, the “loser’s lot” to those who see the same vehicles sitting for months on end as they drive by on the other side of the fence).

The drivers who did pass the more difficult test are now subject to the substandard driving skills of those who were unable to meet the higher standards. German drivers, whose training and licensing is considerably more expensive, thorough, and time consuming than American training and licensing, are also subject to this set of “winners.” The safety of those who can has been compromised to accommodate those who can’t.

In no effort to combine the real meaning of fairness, teamwork, and camaraderie, the powers-that-be have forsaken the life lesson and reward of that combination. As has oft been said, fair is not everyone getting the same thing; fair is everyone getting what they need. Some people need to be better educated and trained before they are allowed to be part of a team (group, population).

Bad people who perform a good deed need all their deeds put into proper perspective. Those who don’t meet the standard need to be worked with until they do, not artificially propped up as equals to those who already do. The efforts of those who accomplish should not be minimized to make the minimal feel better.

We, as a society, are the sum of all our parts. Everyone pays when we deliberately impose subtractions instead of making the necessary, and fairer, additions.

Important Santa Claus Information

2006-12-13T20:55:00.001+01:00

America’s North American Aerospace Defense Command and the Canadian Postal System help keep us in touch with jolly ol' St. Nick.

Dear Children O' the World,

NORAD (North American Aerospace Defense Command) will be tracking Santa's travels around the world again this year. On the right hand side of the NORAD website homepage you will see "NORAD Tracks Santa." Click on this and it will take you to the page where Santa's travel time is being counted down. On Christmas Eve, NORAD will begin tracking Santa as soon as he leaves the North Pole. This will allow you to know where he is anytime during the day or night until Christmas morning.

NORAD is a real military site within the dot-mil domain (.mil). This is the exclusive domain of all United States Military websites. If your parent is in the military or works for the military, their email address is a .mil address and their workplace website is also on the .mil domain. Lots of people can visit .mil websites, but only military persons and those who work for the military can put information on the .mil domain.

Tracking Santa is serious business. It requires a lot of expensive equipment and people working very hard around the clock to monitor his whereabouts. Thanks to the United States Military, we will all know just when to get to bed!

If you would like to write a letter to Santa, this is his address:
Santa Claus
North Pole HOH OHO
Canada

It almost doesn't matter what language you speak or what country you're from -- Santa will answer your letter in your language, even if you are blind and type your letter in Braille. The Canadaian Postal System provides the one and only correct address for Santa. Canada is the only country with the only Postal System that handles Santa's mail and they make sure it all gets to him.

The "HOH OHO" is the postal code for the North Pole and was set up by the Canadian Postal System for Santa Claus only. No one else can use that postal code. There is a lot to learn about Santa and the North Pole and lots of ways to have fun at the Canadian Postal System's website for Santa.

If you know of another child who might be interested in this information, please pass it along to them.

Happy Holidays!
The Elves

Holidays On The Move

2006-12-13T20:44:00.000+01:00

Our 12th family move, this time from North Carolina to Europe, posed some logistical problems with the transferring of our holiday traditions. Lots of people love to say it's not about money, things, or decor - as long as everyone is together it's a grand old time. Bah humbug. The citizens of Who-ville wouldn't have been joyful and triumphant had they awoken without their things and suddenly living in a different country.

My Marine husband left for Iraq in January and came home in June. We had a four-day weekend together as a family before he had to be back at work. Less than ninety days later we were en route to Marine Forces Europe in Stuttgart, Germany. That may not seem like much time to pull off an overseas move, but time is long or short relative to what you're doing. We lived for the next 90 days on the fourth floor of a hotel with no elevator. By "we" I mean my husband, myself, and our three children.

The older two were not happy about having left in the middle of their senior year in high school. Our youngest was still too young to realize the gravity of this move. In her mind, going from country to country was the same as going from one house to another in the same town. It was a luxury of ignorant bliss our two older children no longer enjoyed. We celebrated Thanksgiving with five microwavable turkey dinners and a walk around our new community. Without even a few of our traditional trimmings, the older two felt very far from home for the first time.

We'd checked in with the housing office, put ourselves on the waiting list, and spent a lot of time looking for off-base housing to no avail. What didn't cost too much was too small and what wasn't too small was too far away. The homes we were willing to take were taken off the market at the last minute for various reasons. Christmas loomed ever nearer. My husband had to check in to his new command so the children and I were on our own, save for a few days he was able to get out of work.

Our household goods (to include several hundred dollars worth of gifts bought while my husband was deployed) had arrived, but could not be transferred over to us until we had "secured a residence." No, a hotel room full of middle-age anxiety and teenage angst is not considered "a residence" according to the military's Traffic Management Office.

In the meantime, our youngest lost a tooth. I remember it vividly because she coughed, spit, and bled on the desk of the housing lady who was none too keen on my older children. They had decorated the entrance to her office with a stack of multi-colored post-it notes she'd given them. "Here," she said "Play with this." I thought at the time, "Does she think they're younger than they are?"

We put thoughts of the Tooth Fairy on the back burner while browsing binders for available homes and then dismantling what turned out to be one of the most physics-defying feats of construction I'd ever seen. Once done with the woman's door, the older two went on to the waiting room where they'd created a 3d replica of the Eiffel Tower. It was unbelievably accurate and quite colorful. It was also so stable that when anyone opened the door and let in the windy day, it barely moved. Even my normally stoic husband said, "I, uh, I hate to tear it down." The five of us stood there and exchanged heartfelt glances. It was a rare moment of family unity given the close and irritable quarters of what was day 88 at that point. The housing lady stepped in with a trashcan and all was lost in less than a minute.

I ask you, have you forgotten about my youngest child’s tooth? We did. She woke up the next morning and found no coin beneath her pillow. The tooth had fallen to the floor in the night. She came alongside our bed in quiet shock, eking out that what her friends in North Carolina had told her must be true: there was no Tooth Fairy in Europe. She collapsed in tears with the realization that there must also be (doom, doom, doom) No Santa!

The letterhead of the International Council of Legendary Figures (ICLF) didn't exist until I created it on the base library computer. For the benefit of anyone reading this who is under the age of 10, I'm kidding. The next morning, our daughter rose from her cot to show us the letter she'd received along with a crisp five Euro bill. It explained how her trans-Atlantic relocation packet had been held up in France. When push comes to shove, blame the French - that's my motto. The jump in compensation from a coin to a bill was because of the currency conversion. Apparently the Euro was doing badly against the dollar in ICLF-land. (What. Don't look at me that way.) When the problem with her relocation was discovered, the ICLF expedited her transfer and faxed a copy of it straight to the North Pole. Santa not only existed, he knew where she was.

With no homestead on the horizon came the need to decide whether we would postpone Christmas until we had a doorstep upon which our household goods could arrive, or pull the whole thing out of thin air with what little time we had. A great parent is nothing if not good at pulling on thin air. Okay, not great; maybe just so fed up and tired that giving in to the flow of the avalanche was the best option.

All seemed lost the following evening when we got to the only Christmas tree lot said to have any trees left, and of course they had no trees left. Remember Tom Hanks' laugh in Money Pit when the bathtub fell through the floor? That was my husband. The children, whose visions of sugarplums were fast becoming blips of bran, had never left the car. They were spared his outburst and any ensuing psychological damage he might have caused them.

Once back at the room, the older two made hot chocolate with marshmallows. We turned on the TV and watched their favorite holiday movie, The Christmas Story, dubbed in German.

We signed for a second-floor apartment on base the next day, just four days before Christmas, but the housing office had had nothing to do with it. Unbeknownst to me, my ingenious husband had been stalking the housing area on base instead of going to work. He was looking for anyone who was moving but who hadn't told the housing office about it; and he found them. We waited a day for mandatory cleaning and took the apartment without repairs. The moving truck rolled into the parking lot the day before Christmas Eve.

While I stocked and arranged and the kids set up their rooms, my husband pulled off two very important tasks without missing a beat. As if on a reconnaissance mission, he found our Christmas stockings and secreted away every gift the movers in North Carolina had somehow managed to pack into 16 separate boxes along with kitchen stuff and the electronics. He hadn't found the DVD player and was sure it'd been lost in the move or mistakenly packed into storage. He carried on, getting everything up and running from the computer to the coffee maker. This was no small accomplishment on his part because our apartment has but a few 110 outlets. The rest are 220.

He took one last and fateful trip to the PX (base exchange store) before they closed for Christmas Eve. He bought out the rest of their converters, transformers, and 220 light bulbs. He didn't find a DVD player, but he did find a tree. It was artificial, about 3 feet (one meter) tall, and pre-lit. It was outside the store's door covered in snow, a little bent, and on clearance. What everyone else had taken for an ugly shrub was seen by him for what it was: an ugly shrub with no roots and a cord coming off of it.

The children left milk and cookies in the kitchen, surprisingly okay with our having no tree. My son said, "At least we're home now." The girls agreed. They placed their gifts to us, and each other, on the dining room table. They'd set the table earlier with green and red paper plates and plastic cups. They were asleep by the time my husband brought the tree upstairs. Under any other circumstances I'd have sent him back out into the cold, dark night with a thermos and an axe. In light of what we'd endured together without benefit of pharmaceuticals or the need for professional intervention, it was magical.

We decorated the tree with as much as we could and called it good. To save time and help get us into bed before dawn, we used Christmas bags instead of wrapping paper for the gifts. I wrote the note from Santa while he ate the cookies and drank the milk. He reached into the box that had held our stockings to get the vial of silver glitter. This was used every year to mark Santa's trail from the tree to every child's bedroom. He murmured, "Oh!" I turned to see him holding the glitter in one hand and our DVD player in the other.

We woke up Christmas morning to the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, the sight of our beloved Christmas shrub, and the sound of The Christmas Story, playing in English.

Christmas Askew Can Be Christmas Anew

2006-12-13T20:41:00.000+01:00

While many are battling to meet the impending holiday deadline, there are some who are taking great delight in little more than a cookie.

It’s a different holiday world on the wards of Landstuhl Regional Medical Center here in Germany where many of America’s wounded will find themselves before being transported back to the states. It's a very different place from my own home, but it’s even more different from Wal-mart, Toys-R-Us or the mall. The difference is bizarre, if not downright unsettling. The priorities, the moods, and the attitudes inside the hospital couldn't be more polar to those outside out of it.

Few things are comparable to the sheer delight of a child tearing into a plate of Christmas cookies — especially when that child is 22 years old and tearing into those cookies with the one hand at the end of the one arm he has left. The children who didn't make it out of combat are probably having their best Christmas ever, but the same can't be said for their families.

I’m not a fan of defining the good of something by how bad it isn't. I'm not a fan of contractions at all ("We aren't cold this winter" or "I don't have cancer"), because what isn't can just as easily be flipped around and defined by what is ("We are warm" or "I am healthy").

Last Christmas was, economically, my family's best year ever. We bought and made a bunch of gift bags for the wounded and took them to Landstuhl. When we got back I thought, "We could easily get by with so much less." Get by? So much less? I wanted to smack myself. I knew better than the phrase "get by" because there had been that Christmas years ago when "less" would've been a step up.

In 1989 I walked into a church basement with two coupons. One read "girl, 3" and the other read "boy, 4." My job's $459 monthly paycheck qualified me for two wrapped gifts, one for each of my children. I could've unwrapped them to see what they were, but I had no money to replace the wrapping and instead put them under the tree I’d chopped down myself from the forest behind our trailer.

Do understand — this is no sad tale of woe. I put that tree up and was excited about how things were going because just the weeks before we had been sleeping in my car and then in a shelter. My ex-husband had written me but one child support check and I’d used it to pay back rent. His check bounced so my check bounced, and out on the street we stood. Social services helped me get back into the trailer and had given me the gift coupons. Things were tight, but at least we were home now.

All was right with the world until my ex-husband broke into our home and stole the children's presents a week before Christmas. I've never been able to prove he did it, but it's curious that the "robber" would take the gifts and leave behind the few items of actual value that were in full view.

A friend stopped by later the same day and did her best to console me. Also a single mother, she didn't have much money either and twice as many children. She was right to tell me the kids were young enough that they wouldn't know Christmas from next Tuesday. She said if all I did was give them cookies and candy canes, all would be well, and so that’s what I planned. She had other plans.

A few days before Christmas, she showed up with several mutual acquaintances. They’d brought wood for my woodstove and 27 presents for each of the children. It was five holiday seasons later when I realized I’d opened no gift for myself. My gift hadn't come in a box, and it was such a powerful present, I still regard it as the best Christmas ever.

My older two children remember 1989 as a flurry of color and light, warmth and the smell of cookies. My youngest views the photos from that year as almost mythical. By this time next week, my "girl, 3" and my "boy, 4" will be home from their college in Kansas and my husband will be home from his work in Virginia. This last weekend my youngest helped me decorate the tree and make cards that we'll all take to the wounded later.

I’ve not come full circle from the day I desperately clenched those coupons, but had I remembered that “get by" really means "do just fine," it wouldn't have taken these trips to Landstuhl and a stroll down memory lane to jolt me back to reality.

Merry Christmas. I hope yours is joyful and triumphant.

Deplaning the Legal Right to Breastfeed

2006-11-20T13:33:00.000+01:00

Discretion is the better part of voluptuous. No, wait. Valor is the better part of the breast. Er, breasts are better - what is it?

A woman claims to have been kicked off a Freedom-operated Delta flight for not accepting a blanket offered by a flight attendant. The attendant asked the breastfeeding mother sitting on the next to last row in the window seat next to her husband to cover up. The mother declined, saying she had the legal right to breastfeed her child. She and her family were ordered off the plane.

Freedom spokesman Paul Skellon offered, "A breast-feeding mother is perfectly acceptable on an aircraft, providing she is feeding the child in a discreet way. She was asked to use a blanket just to provide a little more discretion, she was given a blanket, and she refused to use it, and that’s all I know.” Uh, Paul? You also know the woman and her family were ordered off the plane.

Too bad none of the terrorists from the flights of 9/11 were breastfeeding moms; then we'd be reading a different chapter in our history books, eh?

I thought my take on this was pretty cynical until I read some of the comments on the article.

If the attendant had to offer her a blanket she was obviously showing things that others did not want to observe.

Boy, that is no kidding. Let's hear it for blankets! I don't want to see the mole that woman refuses to have removed, the vulgar tattoo on his forearm, the hook-nosed lady over there, his fat ass, her anorexic ass, his combover, or anyone's glaring lack of fashion sense. And what in the hell is up with the people who seem to have no idea they're leaving a trail of dandruff behind that would rival the contents of a large snow globe? I understand I'm seven rows apart from these people and can only see them if I'm in their vicinity, looking at them, and became suddenly incapable of looking the other way. Still, can't we all just get a blanket?

I think this incident might have been more of a safety issue. After 9/11 flight attendants are more concerned with safety and if any passenger makes them feel uncomfortable or a passenger seems to not want to comply with the flight attendant's request, often they will be asked to leave the plane if it has not left the gate. Maybe that flight attendant felt threatened by the women or felt she could cause trouble later in the flight.

That would make an interesting public service announcement:
Breastfeeding - Safety First! It's time to fly - do you know where your breasts are?

We all have genitals, too. Should we bare them in public? We all have anuses, but it's rude to shove them in other people's faces. This woman wasn't kicked off for breast-feeding her baby. She was offered a blanket so she could continue doing that discreetly.

Breasts are genitals? Surely that's not what this person is saying. No. I won't even consider someone who is tech-savvy enough to get a comment on a website could be that anatomically ignorant. I mean, c'mon. We don't all have computers, but we do all have bodies. Maybe the person meant breasts are comparable to genitals. I'm all for a law that mandates the covering of every breast shown in public. This law would of course cover (no pun intended) the breasts of every man, specifically those men whose breasts are bigger than mine. That's right, I'm jealous! Even though they have the legal right to showcase those swayin' beauts, I have the legal right not to see them. Those flat-chested men with their hairy nipples -- they're outa here, too!

She preferred to flaunt her "legal right" to bare her breast in public, and it was this combative attitude and unwillingness to comply with a flight attendent's instructions that got her kicked off.

You flaunt that legal right, girlfriend! Can you get thrown off a plane for shouting, "Where's that damned voting booth?"

The woman had a prior plan to sue Delta for this. Otherwise, why would she have 22-month-old nursing and refuse a blanket?

Oh, it was a conspiracy. Quick, someone call Kevin Costner. Who wants the movie rights, you?

It seems to me that before everyone condemns Delta for doing this "terrible, terrible" thing to this poor mother, that everyone should remember that only one side of the story has been aired. Of course, the mother is going to say she was discreet etc. ect. And maybe that was the case. If so, Delta ought to be ashamed.

However, there's a very real possibility that the whole story is not being told here. My point is that, while on the surface, it seems a clear cut case of really poor judgment on Delta's part, it's also very possible that there is another side of things that would explain Delta's actions more fully. She may have been removed for other more valid reasons, but chose to state it was due to the breastfeeding. That's what people do....put themselves in the best possible light. And what is in the press is seldom accurate or the whole story. It seems very strange to me that Delta would take such an extreme action without more reason.

Ahem. Is this thing on? On behalf of Delta, I'd like to prattle on endlessly in full support of Delta even though I wasn't there and even though I only heard one side of the story (and it wasn't Delta's). I want to suggest that perhaps she did something besides flaunt her boob and that it was this other thing that got her kicked off. Further, I think Delta isn't saying the real reason because that's their prerogative, so I'm saying for them - whatever they would say if they, you know, said. No, I'm not a Delta employee vying for a promotion or the CEO's bootlicker or a stockholder who hopes like all holy hell that this doesn't put Delta under. I'm just a person with an opinion, even if that opinion has no basis in fact of any kind. Go Delta!

If she did not want to comply with accepting the blanket, then she set herself up to be removed from the airline.

Another setup? Damn you, you law-abiding persons you! It’s entrapment, I tell you!

When flying with my very young babies, I tried to make arrangements for flying time that did not include having to breast-feed during flight time. Like: feeding and changing them before flight times, not waiting until the plane was 'going to take off'! It was much easier for me and my babies and perhaps this mother should have considered this.

As a mother who has flown with two very young babies I was breastfeeding, I would like to say, "Amen, Sister!" I too have anal-retentively controlled my children from the womb so that there are no surprises, no getting caught off guard, none of that ill-timed takin' care of business like wetting or pooping, getting hungry or thirsty, crying or cooing - not when I'm trying to maintain my dignity!

Breasts arouse sexual feelings in men and sometimes other women, and THAT is why there ought to be discretion.

New, from Parker Brothers! Discretion, the game that makes you think you've won when really you haven't. What it takes to win or lose is determined by the other players' interpretation of the rules! When it's your turn to roll, you too might get to decide who can and can't use their legal right to behave a certain way and then impose arbitrary restrictions with the use of overused terms whose definitions you clearly don't understand!

Check it. How someone looks does not make him or her responsible for how you feel or even what you do. Now get back in your time machine. 1950 misses you.

You're getting one side of the story here. In this day and age, does ejecting a woman for discreetly breastfeeding in the back of a plane make any sense? Even Delta isn't that stupid. My guess is that there is a lot more to this story.

Oooh! Another Paul Harvey-wanna-be with "the rest of the story." Where are those Delta spokespersons, anyway? Did that unsafe, unsecured, boob-flashing, child-feeding imp of Satan lock them all up in her nursery?

Oh, c'mon. That would make a killer ending to "the rest of the story" and you know it!

My mother is no longer with us, having had breast cancer and a radical mastectomy in 1970 that left her horribly scarred from belly to underarm and all points in between. I'm more than willing to pass along her thoughts about those opposed to the public show of a breast that's breastfeeding, specifically those she regarded as the self-righteous, holier-than-thou types.

"Honey, these are the same people who would have a cow if they saw a woman with a double-mastectomy sunbathing topless in her own backyard. It's not what they see or even what they think they see. It's all about them and their dirty, filthy little minds that wouldn't know a teat from a tater tot, but damned if they wouldn't march on Washington to outlaw potatoes if they thought it would help."

Hera's Women and the Loveless, Sexless Marriage

2006-11-13T20:18:00.000+01:00

Support for the wives of the Loveless, Sexless Marriage

Many women have found themselves in a loveless, sexless marriage. For some this is due to an identified source such as an injury or disease with which their husbands suffer. For others the cause is their husband's addiction to adult entertainment, his infidelity or un-confessed homosexuality.

For others, there came a day when it was all over physically for no apparent reason. The husband no longer desires physical intimacy of any kind, from intercourse to holding hands.

Having concluded the problem is none of the above (in the first paragraph), these women found themselves shut out by more than their husbands; they've been left out in the cold by a society that's convinced the problem is with the wife and refuses to believe there could be anything wrong with the husband. Too, many of these women have been told to simply accept their husband’s lack of desire, effectively shutting down any valid need she has for closeness with her life mate. These women have found judgment and presumption in abundance while support and assistance is severely lacking.

Hera, the Greek goddess of marriage, is the symbol used by the online support group, Hera's Women, to represent those women whose husbands have redefined their relationship as a loveless, sexless union.

Hera's Women is not a dating-romance connection network nor does it seek to accomodate men and/or those who know why their marriage is without affection. It is specifically designed to welcome, validate, and support those women who already know that none of the above-listed problems (in the first paragraph) apply to their situation.

Some of the comments and commenters of the article, "The Loveless, Sexless Marriage" are the reason Hera's Women was started. For more information or to subscribe, please visit Hera's Women.

Of interest: "Hypoactive Sexual Desire Disorder (lack of sexual desire and fantasizing) is more common in men than in women. In public opinion and in medical practice, HSDD is often misinterpreted as Erectile Dysfunction, and treated as such. There is a need for physicians and patients to be educated, and for the development of reliable clinical tools to assess this aspect of male sexual function."
- ERIC J.H. MEULEMAN and JACQUES J.D.M. VAN LANKVELD*
University Medical Centre St Radboud, and *Pompekliniek, Nijmegen, the Netherlands

The Difference Between Knowing and Teaching

2006-11-07T14:14:00.000+01:00

When I called tech-support to help me adjust my computer settings, the guy couldn't get me as far as step two. (I have Windows XP with IE 6.1.) He told me to click on Start and then Control Panel. If you think he instructed me correctly (and have Windows XP with IE 6.1), try it. Anyone who doesn't already know what to do will not know what to do. My ignorance was this guy's ammunition, and he was a sure shot.

Know-it-alls run customer-support lines, man the complaint departments, make up a significant portion of educators, and write instructional manuals for everything from installing computer programs to blowing up balloons. Their job titles are misnomers and their main duties seem to include reducing people to tears. It leaves me wondering, do we really have "learning disabled" people in our midst? Or are we plagued with those who, if they followed their own instructions, couldn't work a door?

I walked through the door of my third grade classroom in 1971. The school I attended used the second grade teacher and the third grade teacher to teach both grades. One taught the two grades English and the other taught the two grades Math. The Math teacher couldn't figure out why everyone in rows four and five of both classrooms did so poorly. Conversely, the English teacher couldn't figure out why rows one and two of both classrooms did so poorly. These two teachers decided everyone in row three of both classrooms was exceptionally intelligent.

Intelligence is not measured by how much we know, but rather by how well we use what we know. Getting the information can be a real trick, especially when instructed by those who don't really want you to know. Shortly after the World Wide Web debuted, it brought with it the opportunity to share our lives with faraway others. Many took it upon themselves to learn basic HTML in an effort to build a simple webpage. Alas, they were banished to the land o' the boxy and drab template by a plethora of unnecessarily complicated HTML tutorials that would have left Einstein in the fetal position crying out for his mother. There was but one exception to this tutorial rule, and it was created by an 11-year-old girl.

The information-savvy among us are almost entirely to blame for the gap between the learned and the learning. All of society is rife with but a fraction of the explanation. The gap is there because the rest of the instructions are tied up in the instructor's assumptions, arrogance, impatience, superiority complexes, and the idea that if the student doesn't already know something then they're just stupid.

As children, we tolerate this method because we don't know any better. As adults we tolerate it because we've been told (and for some reason we believe) we should already know at least some of the things we seek to learn (though, one wonders what the point of instruction is if one is thought to already know). Some of you may have heard one person in a troubled couple ask the other, "What's wrong?" You may then have heard the other say, "If you don't know, I'm not telling you." Thousands of people from the latter half of this kind of couple many a government agency.

There are those who teach, instruct, and assist because they want to share. They care whether or not you learn and this shows in their method, which often includes follow-up. Then there are those who just want to be on top so they can look down on you. They keep others from reaching the top by removing some of the steps. They tap into the well of nobility by appearing to share when really they have no method and no follow-up, and the only thing they want you to learn is how smart they are. This is why normally reasonable people end up swearing, shouting, experiencing chest pains, crying, or smashing things during or after a call to a customer support line. For many, the same occurs when having to take an unpaid day off from work to visit any government agency. Round this out with having achieved absolutely nothing and you end up with a significant portion of the populace thinking themselves morons while the rest think themselves masters.

The Masters Degrees held by my third grade teachers didn't help them understand how only one row of children in each classroom could be doing well in both Math and English while opposite sides of the rooms floundered at these different subjects. If you were to stand in the back of either classroom facing the chalkboard, you would see row one on your left and row five on your right. The English teacher was right-handed. She stood with her back to rows one and two, writing on the chalkboard and explaining as she went. The Math teacher was left-handed. He stood with his back to rows four and five, writing on the chalkboard and explaining as he went. Both erased to make room for the next lesson before stepping away from the board. This left the rows of students behind them without any of the information needed to move along with everyone else. Because it was 1971, we children were not allowed to speak. The teachers were clearly too dense to realize their fathers weren't glassmakers, and we were not afforded the opportunity to remind them of this.

Many a child has been left behind because moving forward required knowledge they didn't have - and no one was going to give it to them if they didn't already have it. The material and the teacher are whole, so we're told, therefore it must be we the troubled who are at fault. My compatriots in comprehension, I would assert it is more often than not the instructor who is at fault, not the instructed.

Anyone who has ever been in the company of a temperamental child knows nothing incurs frustration faster than blocking the child's desire to learn. Even the passive child will retreat to daydreaming when the path to understanding is withheld for even a few minutes. It is no wonder, then, that adults can endure hours and even days of getting nowhere, but will eventually be reduced to fits of frustration.

If ever you do get to where you understand your computer, your Social Security paperwork, or even how to preset your coffee maker, consider sharing with someone who wants to know the same thing, without skipping any steps. If enough of us do this, maybe we will be able to reduce the know-it-alls' workforce, sending them to one of the most red tape-flocked halls of apathy and conflicting answers man ever created: the unemployment office.

Meanwhile, those who have Windows XP with IE 6.1 and wish to adjust their computer settings, click on Start in the bottom left-hand corner of your screen. Hover your cursor over Settings. When Control Panel appears, click on it. Adjust away.

Those who wish to learn basic HTML, visit the website Lissa Explains It All. Lissa is now in college, but she was kind enough to keep the site simple so that every beginner has the same chance to learn, in full, without skipping any steps.

Bush to Habeas Corpus: Take A Hike!

2006-10-20T00:05:00.000+02:00

The Military Commissions Act of 2006 bids our Bill of Rights a fond farewell.

Let’s start slow and with the juiciest part of the Military Commissions Act of 2006, signed into law yesterday, October 18, 2006, by President George W Bush.

In this chapter: ‘(1) UNLAWFUL ENEMY COMBATANT.—(A) The term ‘unlawful enemy combatant’ means—
‘(i) a person who has engaged in hostilities or who has purposefully and materially supported hostilities against the United States or its co-belligerents who is not a lawful enemy combatant (including a person who is part of the Taliban, al Qaeda, or associated forces); or
‘(ii) a person who, before, on, or after the date of the enactment of the Military Commissions Act of 2006, has been determined to be an unlawful enemy combatant by a Combatant Status Review Tribunal or another competent tribunal established under the authority of the President or the Secretary of Defense.

Please read it carefully. To paraphrase, (i) spells out what qualifies a person as an unlawful enemy combatant. (ii) says "and the rest of you, too."

(ii) doesn't specify as does (i). Instead, the language of (ii) is so vague it can be used against any person on this planet and would then include all U.S. citizens -- on U.S. soil or abroad. If you’re a U.S. citizen abroad, you’ll be comin’ home. If you’re not, better hope they don’t catcha.

If you don't qualify as an unlawful enemy combatant under (i), you sure as hell do under (ii). Covered that very well, they did.

Moving on to the Geneva Convention, the act says:

GENEVA CONVENTIONS NOT ESTABLISHING SOURCE OF RIGHTS.—No alien unlawful enemy combatant subject to trial by military commission under this chapter may invoke the Geneva Conventions as a source of rights.

This means anything the United States agreed to when signing the Geneva Convention on August 12, 1949 is no longer agreed to by the United States.

If you're not familiar with the Geneva Convention, please take the time to get familiar. It doesn't apply to you anymore, so maybe you could take your time doing that. Ditto on the Constitution.

In a nutshell, any provision of rights (to include not torturing someone to actual death) is no longer afforded to any "unlawful enemy combatant" of the United States.

Please reread what qualifies a person as an "unlawful enemy combatant."

Did you catch the word "alien" in the phrase "alien unlawful enemy combatant"? If you think this means you're off the hook as a U.S. citizen, read on...

DETERMINATION OF UNLAWFUL ENEMY COMBATANT STATUS DISPOSITIVE - A finding, whether before, on, or after the date of the enactment of the Military Commissions Act of 2006, by a Combatant Status Review Tribunal or another competent tribunal established under the authority of the President or the Secretary of Defense that a person is an unlawful enemy combatant is dispositive for purposes of jurisdiction for trial by military commission under this chapter.

Again, this means everyone -- as in everyone who doesn't fall under the heading of "alien" or otherwise qualifying as an "unlawful enemy combatant." That's you and me, babes.

What are some things you the citizen could do to land yourself in the category of "unlawful enemy combatant"?

* You could do research for an article or a college essay online, at your library, and/or in interviews with Muslims or anyone of non-American descent.

* You could be the spouse or parent of a wounded U.S. military servicemember who told someone in passing that you didn't think the government was doing their best to provide for the wounded.

* You could tell your neighbor how upset you are about having to send combat gear to your loved one in combat because he/she doesn’t have adequate protective equipment.

* You could volunteer to work on an archaeological dig outside the United States alongside those who have been deemed enemies of the United States. Do you know what the criteria are for determining an enemy of the United States? Again, the act says (to paraphrase), "anyone is an unlawful enemy combatant who is an alien and/or meets the criteria under (i) and/or those who don’t fall under (i) but do fall under (ii)."

* You could fly to Kabul as an American tourist and visit the site where the Taliban dynamited 1,500-year-old statues of Buddha.

* You could redress your grievances and use your free speech to protest this or any other act.

* You could plant flowers in the colors of a random Muslim country.

* You could be the author of or the reader of this article.

Essentially, anyone could do anything anytime anywhere. As long as those who have been or will be assigned to determine your status think you are an unlawful enemy combatant based on all the points in (ii) -- read it again for specifics and take note that there are none -- your constitutional rights don't mean jack and the Geneva Convention doesn't apply to you.

Your human rights are now better protected in just about every country on the planet than they are in the United States. Do the people of the United States care? Apparently not. Are there those who think this is a good idea (besides the President and anyone who gets to decide who is who)? Sure; but it’s not clear whether those in favor have actually read the act.

If you think I’ve interpreted the incorrectly, read it for yourself.

In the meantime, watch where your donations go. The act says (to paraphrase), anyone who contributes monies to anyone or anything deemed connected to an enemy of the United States is an unlawful enemy combatant. Who’s to say this doesn’t include any and every charitable organization such as the Red Cross, Red Crescent societies, or any religious group supplying aid of any kind to refugees or peoples thought to have connections of any kind to enemies of the United States?

On that note, and if you're feeling really froggy, read the part that says who can and cannot be part of the rather small group of people who will decide whether or not you're an unlawful enemy combatant.

Eddie Izzard used to be funny, but not so much now:

“Cake or death?”

“Uh, cake please!”

“Well, we're out of cake!”

“So my choices are ‘or death’?”

Going Up and Around at Stuttgart's Cannstatt Festival

2006-10-02T20:26:00.000+02:00

I trembled at the height of the ride. My bubbly daughter saw my expression, halted in mid-glee, and eeked out a soft, heartfelt plea. "Mom?"

We planned to take our 13-year-old daughter and her friends to Stuttgart, Germany's Cannstatt Festival (held at about the same time as Munich's Oktoberfest). As luck would have it her friends became unable to go, one by one. One had been grounded for punching her brother, another for not finishing her chores, and the third was whisked out of town (the mother told me of her in-laws) by a sudden and most unexpected appearance of grandparents.

My daughter slumped onto the train, sure it would be the most boring time of her entire life. "We are daring and adventurous people," I told her. "And most importantly, we have money!"

My talk of vendor shopping, eating chocolate-covered stuff, and knocking over stacked cans for stuffed animals fell on deaf ears. She wanted to ride the rides and was sure she'd have to ride alone, not ride at all, or worst of all have to ride with one of us. Her eyes brimmed with tears. Having raised two children already, I knew her feelings of newlyteen hopelessness would abate as soon as we were in the heart of the festival.

Meanwhile, I was still lamenting my bad hair week. No amount of spritz, mousse, or spray had tamed this naturally wavy mess into any sort of order. I clipped it into place and left it at that.

Once off the train, we turned the corner into the main causeway of the festival and there it was in all its neon glory: the first ride. As soon as she spotted it, my daughter forgot all about her friends and the curt insinuation she'd made earlier that older people probably wouldn't be up for such things. This, she had asserted, despite our having ridden rides with her and her friends every festival before that. It's amazing what turning 13 does to the mind.

She grabbed at her father and pulled him toward the ticket booth. The two large seating compartments of the ride held about 20 people each and were flung high into the air. Each compartment then went its separate way, around and over, and over again.

If not for the sheer speed of the ride, a person could potentially see every square inch of the festival from several different angles, several different times.

I would have nothing to do with a ride like that. I can go fast and I can go 'round, but I can't go aloft. Unlike some who are taken to their knees with nausea, I'm one of the few whose stomach stays in place. However, at that height, my mind would convince my body that mortal danger was imminent. I would barely notice my heart attempting to beat its way out of my chest or the rigidity of my limbs because I would be screaming at the top of my lungs.

Leaning out a window of the Neuschwanstein Castle without realizing there was a 100 meter drop just beyond, I panicked and threw myself backwards. I'd closed my eyes so tightly it took me several minutes to open them. Even then I couldn't see clearly for another few minutes. You could call it an irrational fear, but at least I wasn't hurled out that window by a mysterious force and slammed into the rocky grounds below.

My husband has no such fear -- of anything. In his mid-40's, he's still as fearless and capable as ever. Marine boot camp, war, and driving in Italy will do that to a person.

Earlier in the week, he and a friend emerged from one of the beer tents at the festival and went for a ride in a big plastic ball attached to bungee cords. They were slung some 30 meters into the air, bounced back and forth, and came away laughing hysterically, not an ill look between them.

My daughter and husband paid their Euro and saddled up for three minutes of physics-defying, action-packed thrills. I couldn't watch. My fear of heights extends to my children. They aren't smart enough to be scared so I'm scared for them. That's what the phobia tells me, anyway. I watched an older gentleman cut the silhouettes of festivalgoers from paper.

My daughter came bounding off the ride with the look of someone who was not only ready to go again, but also higher, faster, and in ever more directions. My normally jubilant husband bounded not so much. Despite this mild day with a light breeze, he was sweating profusely, clammy, and cold to the touch. He said he needed to sit down. I found him a spot and a tepid cup of cola. I told him to sip slowly and breathe. He would recover within thirty minutes and enjoy several other harrowing rides, but just then he didn't look well.

My bouncy and oblivious daughter was gleefully pointing at all the different rides and had decided which one was next: the largest transportable Ferris wheel in the world. It measures 60 meters in diameter. That wasn't hard to veto.

She turned and pointed again, this time to the highest roller coaster in the festival. At less than half the height of the Ferris wheel, it was going to be hard to come up with something other than "No, I could die. Do you want me to die? What kind of a daughter are you, anyway?"

The roller coaster wasn't as topsy-turvy as the ride that took my husband out of commission, but it was twice as high off the ground. I mumbled under my breath, "Oh, great. He's sick and I have a paralyzing phobia. I spit on the "P"; I was that scared.

My bubbly child caught a glimpse of my expression and halted in mid-bounce. She looked down at her father and then back at me. I was still woefully trembling at just how high up that roller coaster went. She eeked out a soft and heartfelt plea, "Mom?"

"Oh Jesus." Yes, I was praying. For guidance. For strength. For invisibility.

I looked back at my husband, then at the ride and then at my daughter. The ringing in my ears began with my first step forward. I could barely feel my daughter holding my hand while she jumped up and down. This would prove to be the third and, hopefully, final indoctrination into full-fledged motherhood.

The first came when my ex-husband precariously placed my then-infant son on the edge of a truck seat. Mothers know I need say no more. The second came with my oldest daughter's flight from a merry-go-round into the trunk of a tree.

As my youngest and I stood in line, I deliberately averted my eyes from the ride itself. Every now and then I would glimpse my husband, head down and still not looking good. I breathed in, breathed out, and told myself I had to do this. I'm a good mother. I can do this. There was no rational reason not to do this -- other than falling hundreds, if not thousands of meters to what would surely be a most painful and sustained doom.

My eyes clenched shut the moment we sat down in the compartment. I was sure this was the end. I told my daughter I loved her. She laughed and hollered out along with the rest of the crowd, "gehen wir!" ("Let's go!")

At first it was an interesting sensation to be aware of height without seeing how high up we were. Interesting, and then frightful. With no way out, I gripped the bar in front of me for dear life. My heart began its attempt to escape my chest and I felt my lungs filling with what would be a deafening cry.

The descent into hell had lifted me straight out of my seat. I could feel my fingernails embedding in the palms of my hands as I let loose with a blood-curdling scream. My daughter again laughed. This was oddly comforting.

I became aware of the two clips I'd had in my hair. As we dove down, flew up, and twisted to and fro, I could feel the clips being pulled out. It was the same mysterious force that would propel us from the dubious safety of our seats, I was sure. Around the next twist I realized the clips weren't in my hair anymore. 'I'm next,' I thought. 'God, just make it quick!'

About the time I'd come to terms with my own demise, the ride was over. For all my fear and my heart still pounding in my chest, it was all so anticlimactic. I held tight to my daughter while my eyes desperately tried to open and refocus.

We made it over to my husband who was now standing and feeling better. He looked at me and said, "Wow! Your hair!" I started to finger-comb it when my daughter stopped me and said, "No, no! It looks great!" Naturally, I did not believe them. I scoured the area for a reflective surface and found it in the stainless steel sidewall of a schnitzel stand. Sure enough, they were right. It did look great. In fact, it looked stupendous! Not only had I faced my fear and come out of it alive, I had great hair to boot!

Now, where's that Mother-of-the-Year award?

Ich Liebe Cannstatt!

Placating Terrorists

2006-09-20T12:23:00.000+02:00

Stop allowing the enemy to define the terms and thus dictate the rules of engagement.

Drawing the line between civilized and uncivilized religious behavior, Pope Benedict used the words of Byzantine Christian Emperor Manuel Paleologos II, "Show me just what Mohammed brought that was new, and there you will find things only evil and inhuman, such as his command to spread by the sword the faith he preached." The Pope was right on.

The Pope's spokesman (who said, "It certainly wasn't the intention of the Pope to carry out a deep examination of jihad (holy war) and on Muslim thought on it, much less to offend the sensibility of Muslim believers.") was not, and neither was the Pontiff's subsequent address. In a bid to quell violent Muslim reaction to the Pontiff's use of the quote, the spokesman attempted to reword what the Pope said. The Pope himself then issued an apology. What a crock. What a placating, ass-kissing, cleric-spun crock.

To make matters worse, the Pontiff didn't apologize for himself; he apologized for others. Ask any married person or business partner about this dynamic and it will be the same: "They're not sorry for what they did; they're sorry for what I did. They still think the way they do." Of course extremists are unforgiving -- the Pope didn't ask to be forgiven.

If what the Pope inferred is incorrect, let's hear from another side of this so far one-sided conflict wherein "we" speak and "they" react. Let's hear some non-violent clarification from the same Muslims who claim peace. There are peaceful Muslims, but there are no peaceful marches, peaceful sit-ins, peaceful anything. There's nothing conspicuous and non-violent. The rest of the world is almost stunned by the ongoing silence. The only representatives of the Muslim religion who publicly took issue with the Pope's words were violent Muslims. While extremists burning the Pope in effigy are preferred to terrorist sent in to suicide bomb the Vatican, neither sends a message of peace.

Hear ye, Muslims -- fire everyone in your public relations department; and by fire, I don't mean actually use fire.

In an article entitled "We cannot afford to maintain these ancient prejudices against Islam," Karen Armstrong accused Pope Benedict of perpetuating Islamophobia. That would work, Karen, except that it's perfectly reasonable to be afraid of and want to stop people who have said they are intent on taking over the planet and killing everyone who disagrees with them. This fear wasn't irrationally brought up from yesteryear. Al Qaeda said it yesterday.

It doesn't matter that extremists took issue with Pope Benedict's words because nothing has changed. Extremists do what they do in reaction to what others do and others do little about it. If extremists were children, we’d call them brats and their parents’ losers without regard for their religion, culture, or language. Osama bin Laden calls them loyalists and trains them to be terrorists.

Extremists went high and to the right on a global scale over what they considered to be blasphemous images of their deity and, on a more local scale, they destroyed one of Asia's greatest archaeological treasures, the Buddhas. Going after Pope Benedict in effigy means squat compared to completely destroying world artifacts representative of the most peaceful religion on the planet. We did nothing about either.

The United States, in reaction to an attack on its own land, invaded the land of the accused, chased the accused into a different country, stopped at that border, spun on its heel, and invaded a different country altogether. If the United States were a child, we'd give him Ritalin.

The Pope reflected what many around the world believe of religious extremists, and rightly so. In National Geographic's Inside 9/11, Osama bin Laden all but paraphrased the Byzantine Christian Emperor and yet extremists took no issue with it. He said the distinction between the nation of Islam and the West is that the nation of Islam loves death while the West loves life. His very existence contradicts his assertion.

This love of death is not restricted to the believer. The believer is taught to love not just his own death, but also the deaths of others. Osama bin Laden, on the other hand, has deliberately avoided that which he convinces others of deliberately seeking. He has chosen but a handful to follow him in life while everyone else is sent down the path to salvation (read: death). If the path to salvation is so great, why hasn't he chosen the same path?

The motivations of Osama bin Laden and those like him have nothing to do with love of death or life. Religion may be the dress the emperor wears, but religion is not the supporting garment and the wearer is decidedly not dead. If there were nothing on earth but the nation of Islam, what would extremists-turned-terrorists do with this "love of death"? Just as with any deeply entrenched personality disorder, the disorder can't function without a target. The person with the disorder must constantly seek to find and/or create a new target.

The impulse to control doesn't go away just because everything is within his control. He will engage whatever he must to meet the need of the disorder. Even if no one else is left on the planet he will seek to rearrange his environment even if that means destroying it. Case in point: the Taliban had everything in line in Afghanistan -- the women, the children, the elderly, the diet, and the daily routine. What was left to control, change, and restrict? That's when they went after the Buddhas. For almost two thousand years extremists had no interest in the statues -- until there was nothing else to control, change, or restrict.

The distinction then is not that the nation of Islam loves death and the West loves life. In fact, there is no distinction. The word distinction has been coupled with the word religion by bin Laden and the rest of the world has bought into it. It is a misnomer used to justify the elimination of those who think differently and a willingness to use one's own people to further the cause. This is precisely how one can conclude that bin Laden's actions are not religious but instead self-serving and of this world. He and those before him and like him have used others' devotion to Allah to convince them to die by way of taking out the enemy -- an enemy that extremist leaders used the Koran to define and an enemy they themselves specifically identified: the United States and her Allies.

Look at any country not allied with the United States and that does not adhere to the Koran. Are they on the hit list? No, not specifically. Even though they meet the Koran's definition of enemy, extremist leadership hasn’t specifically identified them as enemies. That's not the nation of Islam's love of death or even bin Laden's love of death. That's extremist leadership's love of everyone else's death. That they have others believing they're dying for a spiritual reason is a convenience, not a dogma.

We kill the one who kills the many and we go home. They kill and kill and kill. When they run out of opposition they reframe and redefine until someone meets the criteria. Eventually, those whose beards are a centimeter shorter or longer than the leadership's will become the opposition. Extremist leadership will not be happy until everyone is dead except themselves.

The United States and her Allies must refuse to acknowledge the element of religion from this war in order to win it. We must stop referring to them or their actions with religious terms of any kind. Any cleric with ties to terrorism is not a cleric. Take the "holy" out of the war. Stop allowing the enemy to define the terms and thus dictate the rules of engagement.

Your enemy knows you were raised never to hit those who wear glasses. As they're trying to kill you they're yelling, "Don't hit us back because we're wearing glasses!" You've diplomatically asked them to remove their glasses but they refused. What do you do? Conservatives would tell you to stay in the fight and try to kill them in a way that doesn't harm their glasses. Liberals would tell you to run away, knowing they will seek out and kill others as soon as you leave. Instead of allowing extremist distaste for Pope Benedict's words to further distract the United States and her Allies from the goal, how about we invoke a third option. Tell them their flagrant disregard for human life trumps their right to protected vision. Strip them of their glasses and blind them.

Presidents Nazarbayev and Bush to Bash Borat

2006-09-13T23:38:00.000+02:00

Kazakhstan is a day late and a Tenge short.

Kazakhstan president Nursultan Nazarbayev has called upon the land of free speech to complain about the Berkshire native, Jewish-born comedian/actor Sacha Baron "Borat/Ali G" Cohen's portrayal of a Kazakh TV presenter in the film Borat: Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan.

Nazarbayev R.S.V.P'ed President Bush' invitation to visit the White House where the two leaders will not "share a joke about the film," reported Kazakhstan Embassy spokesman, Roman Vassilenko. The Kazakh government wasn't thrilled with the film's Toronto Film Festival premiere and plans to PR the hell out of itself in the United States with television and print media to counter the negative image of Kazakhstan it says Cohen has promoted.

Sean R. Roberts of the Central Asian Affairs Fellow at Georgetown University says, "The increased [American] knowledge of Kazakhstan, however, is not due to the country's economic successes or its role as a U.S. ally in the war on terror. Instead, most Americans...have heard of it through a satire of a Kazakh journalist named Borat."

Sounds like the Kazakh make-us-look-good department is a day late and a Tenge short. Who's fault is that, Kazakhstan?

Kazakhstan hasn't just been sitting around, though. They did threaten Cohen with legal action. Threaten -- as in said they would, but then they didn't. Cohen is a comedian for cryin' out loud, not a diplomat or a criminal. Is it safe to assume there are no comedy clubs in Almaty?

President of the Association of Kazakh IT Companies, Nurlan Isin did, however, shut down Cohen's website, borat in response to all both complaints; one from the government and one from the Nazarbayev's security service. "We've done this so he can't badmouth Kazakhstan under the .kz domain name. He can go and do whatever he wants at other domains," Isin said

That's right, Isin, Cohen sure can go -- all the way to the bank, thanks to the free international publicity and attention brought on by Kazakhstan itself; attention that will only fuel the box office, not a more positive Kazakhstan publicity campaign.

U.S. Officials Throw the Book at Terrorism

2006-09-12T12:55:00.000+02:00

He who defines the terms can adjust reality.

In a bold, unprecedented move, the U.S.-led coalition was able to boast a 52 percent drop in the murder rate in Baghdad from July to August with the cunning use of a thesaurus.

U.S. military spokesman in Iraq, Maj. Gen. William B. Caldwell, said a security crackdown that began August 7th more than halved the city's murder rate. To calculate the success of the crackdown, officials counted only those who died as the result of having been murdered or executed as a specific target of terrorism.

Those killed in the crossfire, specifically those whose deaths had been counted before the crackdown, didn't make the cut.

Death by bomb, mortar, rocket, IED, VBIED, or suicide attack is now off the list of ways one can be murdered. These means of attack are indirect and not necessarily the result of direct sectarian-related violence.

What still counts? Drive-by shootings and death by torture and/or execution. What does this change around in terms mean for the U.S. coalition casualty rate? "These comments were intended to highlight some specific indicators of progress and were never stated in relation to broader casualty figures," U.S. military spokesman Lt. Col. Barry Johnson said Monday.

Right. If you were part of the U.S.-led coalition then you were singled out, brutally attacked, and murdered by terrorist thugs. If you weren't part of the U.S.-led coalition, you just died. The U.S. might even say you were killed as the result of a terrorist attack, but if your name wasn’t on that bullet, bomb, or IED you weren’t murdered.

U.S. military spokesman Lt. Col. Barry Johnson didn't say how anyone arrived at the 52 percent figure, saying details would give "our enemy information they need to adjust their tactics and procedures to be more effective against us."

One wonders if that enemy includes anyone who questions how a murder rate can drop when the number of bodies piling up doesn’t.

Let's just keep that kind of poetic license away from the list of World Trade Center casualties, shall we?

Parenting: Tips Are For Kids

2006-09-08T09:44:00.000+02:00

Pearls of wisdom for the young adult who didn't listen to their parents.

There are a lot of parents who tried to impart pearls of wisdom to their children before they flew from the nest for college, marriage, or what they thought for sure would be unconditional freedom. As a public service, some of those same pearls are imparted here in hopes that a few of those grown children will read them now as believeable, useful pieces of information (if only because someone other than their parent said it).

• Don't pick up sharp, metal objects. There is nothing on this planet that cannot be opened, prodded, jimmied or moved with something other than a sharp, metal object. Stuff getting stuck in the toaster doesn't mean you need a knife. It means you're putting things in there the wrong way or that are too big for a toaster. Get a toaster oven. Better yet, be cool, stay in school and get an education that will reap much career dough so you can hire someone to cook for you since clearly you've got the smarts for (whatever your talent is) but possess zero aptitude for cutlery and small appliances.

• Don't mix anything with bleach except water. I don't care what the instructions say -- rather, I don't care what your sibling/friend/mother-in-law told you the instructions said. Clorox now makes bleach pens for small stains and stain removal products for non-whites have been on the market for years. Have you been to a white sale? No, you haven't. Therefore, you have no need for putting liquid bleach in a washer load. If you have that many things requiring that much bleaching, you might want to take a long, hard look at your behavior instead of focusing on cleaning up what happens when you behave that way.

• To this end, buy darker, solid-colored bedding. These can be washed in cold (look at that electric meter whiz 'round with the hot cycle!) and easily dressed up with a colorful comforter, a summer quilt and/or a well-placed throw pillow. Take comforters, quilts and pillows to the cleaners.

If you've asked, "Why to the cleaners?" please refer to your baby book. Go to the back where loose pictures are kept. There you may find a photo taken of the washer walking away from the wall. It was thrown off balance by someone having loaded one very heavy item into it -- like, say, a summer quilt.

Keep looking and you might find a picture of the hose that was pulled out of place by the walking washer, thus spewing wash water all over the seven loads of laundry your mother did that day. Look once more for a picture taken another day, this one of the not-quite-closed washer lid atop an overstuffed washer. It may look something like this photo (right) from my own album.

• Sit the hell down! Now breathe! No good ever came from panic, rage or frustration. Remember what Winnie the Pooh said, "There is no hurry. We shall get there."

• You did not just win $1,000,000, €1,000,000 or £1,000,000. I don't care what your mail, email, text messages or phone messages say. In that same vein, pyramid schemes come in many shapes, no one has tapped into your non-existent Wells-Fargo account and no one is going to pay you to transfer large amounts of money.

• Eat a lot of fresh, steamed or baked fruits and vegetables. Do you want to get scurvy? You don't even know what that is, do you? That's because you don't listen!

• Just because you didn't get hurt the first 400 times you went skateboarding/bicycling/racing cars/etc without proper safety equipment doesn't mean you're free from harm. It means you're due for harm. And don't come crying to me when it happens because I won't be here. I'll probably already be in the emergency room waiting for the amublance to arrive so I can make sure you're okay and then lecture you all the way to the room where they will keep you for "observation" (read: away from the crazy lady who smacked the kid with the broken patella and dislocated shoulder).

• Do not throw water on a grease fire. Cover it. Always cover it. Did you hear me? Cover it! What are you frying, anyway? I told you to eat more fruits and vegetables!

• Always keep a supply of Puff's Plus on hand for those unexpected times when you or someone you know laughs real hard or needs to cry.

• Good things do not come to those who wait. That is a lie. Good things come to those who are prepared, work for it and know how to manage their resources. Show me someone who wasn't prepared, didn't work and doesn't know how to manage things and I'll show you someone no one wants to have sex with.

• Don't end your sentences with prepositions.

For more useful tips and information, call your Mother!

Placebos, Prayer and Pain Relief

2006-09-02T01:27:00.000+02:00

The wonder of realizing long sought after relief is a spiritual experience for many, so powerful that it appears to defy explanation.

The belief that a divine being could be called upon to assist with one's health needs is not new. Also aged is the assertion of relieving symptoms with the idea of treatment rather than actual treatment. Scientists have been diligently researching both ideas with the help of positron emission tomography (PET), magnetic resonance imaging (MRI), and electroencephalograph (EEG) tests. The conclusions spell promise for placebos, but doom for deities.

Placebos have been found to have more than just a relieving effect. Some chronic pain patients can be trained to provide their own viable, lasting treatment. Too, how well a patient does with placebos, thought by the patient to be anti-depressants, might be a marker for how well they would do with the real deal.

While the existence of a higher power is in the heart of the believer, scientists have concluded there is no region of the brain specifically designed for heavenly communication. Researchers scanned the brains of 15 cloistered Carmelite nuns who were asked to recall their most heightened divine connection. The researchers observed as over a dozen areas of the nun's brains were activated all at once -- most notably, the caudate nucleus, the part of the brain associated with joy and love. The nuns did not submit to scans while in the process of achieving spiritual oneness, saying, "God cannot be summoned at will."

A devout agnostic, I met these results with a kind of "told you" attitude. I've many times witnessed the power of mind over matter when administering dummy pills to my mother and my children whenever the medicinal well ran dry in destitute times. Despite my mother's fervent skyward pleas, thy kingdom come never came to my house, leaving me with nothing more than a cup of sugar and an idea. We are not hard-wired to a celestial throne and the research proves it.

We are, however, wholly capable of something right nice -- an ability almost lost in a cloud of spiritual vs. medical debate and a dispute over terms. The means by which a patient can learn to harness their own brainpower to relieve their suffering is scientifically proven. Does it really matter, then, what the individual sufferer calls this process or to whom they attribute the power? The parts of the brain activating those regions responsible for relieving pain and creating a sense of serenity are in fact activated by the person hosting said brain. Scientists rightly attribute the ability to the person and reasonably expect the person to take credit for what they've accomplished.

The wonder of realizing long sought after relief is an almost spiritual experience, and is a spiritual experience for many. It is so powerful a feeling that, at first, it appears to defy explanation. This is no work of man, many would assert. Even with an understanding of the brain's process, some who have harnessed this inner control still feel the need to reach outside themselves for explanation. It seems a simple enough concept: Feed yourself when you are hungry and the pangs will go away. I don't get the need to enshrine the grocer. But I'm not my mother.

A devout Catholic, science-fiction fan, and horribly butchered breast cancer survivor of the early 70's, my mother believed in the powers of God and the promise of technology, but she lived with the only reality she had experienced: pain. Her suffering subsided only slightly with pharmaceuticals that also robbed her of coherent cognitive function. Out went the baby with the bath water, she would say. Placebos provided her with outright relief and her faculties didn't suffer in the process. In fact, it was this alertness that had her believing more was at play than just her medicine -- or what she thought was medicine. She described the relief as "magical."

My mother wanted so much to believe in her doctors. Failing that, she turned to God and the future. Before her arm became atrophied from lymphedema (a common condition following breast cancer surgery of the early 70's), she used her once mastered calligraphy skills to pen her favorite quotes and hung them conspicuously in our home.

In Profiles of The Future, English physicist & science fiction author, Sir Arthur C. Clarke wrote, "Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic." In Toward the Future, Pierre Teilhard de Chardin wrote, “The day will come when, after harnessing the ether, the winds, the tides, gravitation, we shall harness for God the energies of love. And, on that day, for the second time in the history of the world, man will have discovered fire.”

Advanced technology has proven she did harness the energies of love and created her own magic. The part I played was insignificant, as is the part she was just sure God had played, but in terms of health, well-being, and a sense of peaceful relief, it's no skin off my nose if she wanted to believe it was God. The beauty of science is that it is discovering fire everyday. The beauty of being human, scientist and layman alike, is that we can call that fire anything we want -- relief, love, magic -- and it's no one's business but our own.

Rest in peace, Mom. God knows you deserve it.

Satire: Rumsfeld and Cheney Questioned About Polygamist, Warren Jeffs

2006-08-31T12:14:00.000+02:00

Update: Evangelist also taken into custody at the scene of Jeffs' arrest.

Polygamist, sect leader, and wanted man, Warren Steed Jeffs was arrested this last Monday after being pulled over for a routine traffic stop.

Earlier this week it had been reported that Jeffs was arrested without event, but sources within the Nevada Highway Patrol say that until FBI agents arrived on the scene, Jeffs refused to cooperate when troopers ordered him out of his red 2007 Cadillac Escalade and became visibly hysterical. Patrolmen say there was a scuffle in the vehicle between Jeffs and two passengers, first thought to be one of Jeffs wives, Naomi Jeffs, and his brother, Isaac Steed Jeffs.

Residents confirmed the report of Jeffs' outburst, saying he had jumped up and down like a small child, yelling at the troopers, "Do over! Do over! I don't have my guns!" At first thought to have thrown himself over the front seat of his vehicle weeping, Jeffs abruptly exited the vehicle and began throwing what appeared to be large balls of fur at the troopers. "What the hell," they were heard exclaiming, "Are those -- kittens?" Troopers were aghast to see wigs of hair falling atop the hoods of their patrol cars.

Jeffs reached back into the vehicle and began lobbing cellphones and laptops at officers, shouting, "Bastards! You low-life, one-wife motherfu---Hey!" Jeffs was brought down mid-sentence with a bitch slap from a woman who appeared suddenly from a nearby hotel. Refusing to be identified by name, the woman later said she was one of Jeffs' wives and has been living in the hotel with three other wives of Jeffs' and 18 of his children since being evicted from his Nevada compound.

Jeffs fell, dumbstruck from the woman's slap, allowing troopers to safely approach and subdue him and take the passengers of his vehicle into custody for questioning. Residents said FBI agents arrived at that time. Troopers said the female passenger's hair went askew as she was placed in the patrol car. FBI agents stepped forward, forced both the female and male passenger down into their seats and were immediately whisked away.

Sources from inside the Nevada Highway Patrol say the two passengers were later identified as Donald Henry Rumsfeld and Richard Bruce "Dick" Cheney, but the FBI has officially denied any such report. It was not said which of the two was donning the wig, but Cheney was seen after his release speaking in Northern Nevada, still red with rouge.

This Just In: A man, discovered curled up behind the Escalade's third seat, has been officially identified as Marion Gordon "Pat" Robertson. Robertson and Rumsfeld have communicated similar accounts of their involvememt with Jeffs, but early on in the questioning, Cheney told a very different story.

Film at 11.

It's Not Nice to Fool With Mother Nature

2006-08-30T06:10:00.000+02:00

Scientists are discovering more and more about the tricks she has up her sleeve.

Farmers across the Great Plains of Middle America are looking for relief from the ongoing, near-record drought. They're looking past the skies and on to Washington. Especially hard-hit is Minnesota, South Dakota, and North Dakota. From cotton to corn, crops are drying up and cattle are going without what was once large expanses of high grass. This last July is the driest on record since 1936, the Dust Bowl's hottest and driest summer for much of the Great Plains.

A fascinating and heart-wrenching, historical account of the Dust Bowl can be found in Timothy Egan's book, The Worst Hard Time: The Untold Story of Those Who Survived the Great American Dust Bowl. Egan seamlessly weaves together the tales and torments of those who stuck it out in the merciless heart of the Plains and illustrates with measurable credibility just how man and his government brought these horrendous storms to life.

Drought is not uncommon in the Plains, rather it is an environmental norm; and it was said before the tragedy of the Dust Bowl that farming the grasslands would bring about the demise of the land. Predictions and speculation about man's behavioral impact on the environment have been with us since very early on and were heard before and after Hurricane Katrina.

Not all scientists agree about how much man's activity has on the environment. Most are, however, in agreement that man is indeed stirring a pot of stew, with a list of ingredients he's not completely aware of, over an ever more warming burner. "I'm not so much arguing that there might not be some worsening from global warming," says Chris Landsea at the National Hurricane Center, "but my question is, how much? One thing that does kind of scare me is that we are doing an experiment on Earth."

None of that would matter if a supervolcano erupted. Of the forty hot spots scientists have located around the world, one brews about 20 miles beneath Yellowstone National Park. Regular volcanoes are cone-shaped, but supervolcanoes emerge from huge canyons (calderas) measuring hundreds of miles wide. Beneath these canyons rest lakes of lava. When they erupt, all hell breaks loose in a series of explosions that destroys all surrounding life and showers much of the earth in ash. Seventy-four thousand years ago, a supervolcano erupted from beneath Lake Toba, in Sumatra, Indonesia, and killed all but a handful of the people on earth.

Beyond the borders of Earth lurks the menacing marvel known as the black hole. Once thought to be stationary, black holes have since been discovered wandering around the universe, vacuuming at will. Were one to get within even a billion miles of our solar system it would greatly disturb Earth's orbit, thus its tides. Any closer and Earth would spin out of the solar system or head for the sun. Either way, a black hole cozying up too close would dwarf the threat of a supervolcano.

Michio Kaku, professor of theoretical physics at City University of New York, says, "The generation now alive, the generation that you see, looking around you, for the first time in history, is the generation that controls the destiny of the planet itself."

So, my fellow Earthlings, take heed, take comfort, and take care.

No Child Left Without a Big Behind

2006-08-28T20:44:00.000+02:00

How's that road to hell coming along, Mr President?

No Child Left Untested

It had been suggested that our government should test America's children to death, give them the option of crap food alongside already marginally nutritious food, and give states the option of (read: not the money for) providing physical education programs. Naysayers said it would strip teaching of creativity, result in test failures across the board, and fatten up the younguns. Those who designed and supported No Child Left Behind (NCLB) and the lunch menus said, "You're wrong."

They promised a lot of money to support the new mandates, delivered on a bit, and the dismay has come to pass. America's children are getting fatter and they aren't NCLB-standards smart.

Those manning the front lines of children's ever-expanding waist lines say NCLB's demands and lack of promised funding have drained schools of the resources they need to provide physical education and schedule physical activity. Additionally, the older a student gets, the less likely they are to be provided with a school-sponsored physical activity.

Physical education is not the only program to suffer. Resources have been pulled from social studies, science, and the arts so reading and math programs have all the resources they need to keep in line with the law. "What our data is showing is that there is a cut [in time devoted to physical education], it just isn't as large as academic subjects," said Center on Public Education (CPE) president Jack Jennings.

Warm Fuzzies for everyone, it's on Jack.

Seeming improvements mask the ongoing struggle of school lunch programs to keep up with guidelines without enough funding and are having a difficult time providing nutritious foods even when the money is available. “The reality is that the food industry is incapable of changing as fast as that group wanted things done,” said Ben Matthews, director of school support at the North Carolina Department of Public Instruction. “It takes the food industry a minimum of one year — but sometimes two to three years — to change processes.”

Christina Dodd, child nutrition director at Henderson County, North Carolina Schools suggests a menu of hamburgers, salads, fruits, various vegetables, and side items constitutes having served a balanced meal. Offered is not the same as served, Ms Dodd.

Many school nutrition directors, and parents, believe that offering children both healthy and unhealthy options will prompt them to make the healthier choice. When they don't, they cite the child's decision to eat poorly rather than take responsibility for having provided a poor choice as an option. "Well," Dodd says, "a lot of students only want to eat the hamburger.”

Really.

No Child Left Without a Big Behind

Under the guise of approaching a solution, some critics seem willing to become part of the problem. Instead of suggesting a different approach to academic testing, Russell Pate, a professor of exercise science at the University of South Carolina, suggests adding physical education to the list of tests. Would doing so translate into fitter kids? It's not likely, given how academics are delivered under NCLB.

Kids are being taught to pass tests by way of a strict academic curriculum, and they're no smarter for it. In Old School terms, this is known as rote learning -- tell the children what to say, tell them to say it, repeat. Again. Physical fitness would no doubt suffer under the same system -- the kids might be a little trimmer, but still not meet standards, and at no point will they know why or how change in their bodies occurred. It must be conceded that this would be better than what many states offer -- no physical education program whatsoever.

No Child Whose Parents Are Rich Left Behind

"I think you have to look at many other factors when you look at obesity," Chad Colby, deputy press secretary for the Department of Education, defended. "To put the blame on a program (NCLB) that requires kids to read and do math at grade level is absurd. It tends to be an excuse, but it is a poor one."

The positive effect of physical activity on the brain's ability to read and calculate goes unaddressed by NCLB supporters; instead, many contend there is the option of extracurricular activity. Jacalyn Lund, president of National Association for Sport and Physical Education, countered with the reality of every child's parents not having the money to provide for after-school activities. This, too, went unaddressed by NCLB supporters.

No Child Will Escape

NCLB was named the way it was for one reason: any detractors could immediately be called on the carpet with "What kind of parent/teacher/person are you that you would leave a child behind? Sniffle, whimper, whine." The name has absolutely nothing to do with the program. It wasn't named more accurately so as to deflect the obvious intent of the program -- batter children with the only information we're willing to give them.

If you can't dazzle them with bullshit, pull their funding. The fail-safe within NCLB is the conditions under which it will provide and reduce monies. By setting the standard only as high as those achieved by the best performing schools, NCLB insured continued funding of these schools and does now deflect blame for underfunding the most needy schools by citing their failure to meet the standards. This is government-sanctioned survival of the fittest -- a curiously hypocritical approach for this administration to take.

It's no coincidence that rote learning came into law on the heels of evolution coming into curricular question across the nation. Color me paranoid (but you'll have a hard time coloring me with anything from a government funded public school art education program.) The passing of NCLB into law is the perfect safety net for "critical evaluation" and its incestuous cousins, creationism and intelligent design.

Bush and his band of NCLB'ers know its better to have a fat, dumb, and happy (read: patriotic) population than it is to have an educated mob that could catch you in a dead run. He and his have fooled many into thinking repetition and memorization is the same thing as learning; that heart-stopping trans fat, being worse than mere heart-clogging saturated fat, means it's okay to make the latter part of the school menu; and that tattooing a flag on your flab is a grand ole thing.

The U.S. Department of Education dares to say their study shows almost every single one of the nation's public elementary schools had a physical education program of some kind in 2005. This could be said to directly contradict the National Association for Sport and Physical Education's (NAPSE) findings; except that one of the things NAPSE found was that 12 states offered students the opportunity to earn credits through online courses in physical education.

This is tantamount to teaching a cooking class in a refrigerator. Look children, see all the ingredients. You can heat things up if you just apply yourself. If this is how the U.S. Department of Education defines "some kind," then hey, they got us there. He who defines the terms, and all that. More states than made up the original colonies require no physical education at all for elementary and middle school children.

It's easier now to see how a promise of something can result in nothing. How’s that road to hell coming along, Mr President?

Example isn't another way to teach, it is the only way to teach. - Albert Einstein

A mind is a fire to be kindled, not a vessel to be filled. - Plutarch

Information cannot replace education. - Imparato and Itarari

The secret of education is respecting the pupil. - Ralph Waldo Emerson

I hate quotations. - Ralph Waldo Emerson

Satire: President Bush Continues to Denounce Knowledge and Tom Cruise Dies

2006-08-28T20:43:00.000+02:00

Fifty-eight percent of the polled defended their opposition to stem cell research, saying Tom Cruise wouldn't like it. Twelve percent said their name was Tom Cruise.

The news that scientists have come up with a new way to generate stem cells that wouldn't destroy human embryos did little to alter the American public's regard for the research. A Newsweek poll conducted this week on the streets of Washington, D.C. shows just as many dumb-asses oppose it now as did in October 2004, and for the same dumb-ass reasons.

Forty-six percent of the opposition has a high school education or less and concede their understanding of the issues surrounding stem cell research "ain't that good." When asked to comment on this percentage mirroring the high-school dropout and illiteracy rates, President Bush said, "Any use of high school drop-outs for research purposes raises serious ethical questions."

Forty eight percent of those polled said embryonic stem-cell research is a good idea and 40 percent said it sucked. Of those polled, 40 percent were able-bodied and 48 percent were wheelchair-bound or aided with the use of a cane, crutch, or walker.

During polling, 33 percent of the able-bodied made vocal fun of their disabled counterparts, shouting comments such as "Hey citizen cane, is that a stem cell in your pocket or are you just happy to see me!" and "Why do they call it a walker when you can't walk?" When the Newsweek pollster, himself wheelchair-bound, came out of a local restaurant with a to-go container in his lap, one of the polled men who had come out against stem cell research was heard to say, "Look, meals on wheels!"

Moments later, the restaurant owner called 911 when he saw seeing glints of steel and spurts of blood outside his establishment. Upon arrival, paramedics found 13 people in need of stiff boards who had previously been seen walking unassisted. Three disabled persons were arrested for simple assault and a man refusing to remove his sunglasses was released after being questioned about the bits of clothing hanging from his unleashed dog's mouth.

When the polling was resumed, 58 percent of the remaining and opposed defended their position, saying God wouldn't like it or Allah wouldn't like it or Tom Cruise wouldn't like it. Twelve percent said their name was Tom Cruise. Three percent asked that God also be polled, as he was alleged to have been standing right there. Allah could not be reached for comment.

Forty-nine percent objected to stem cell research being funded with public monies. While being polled, 67 percent of those opposed to public funding made and received numerous phone calls wherein they were heard asking, "Where's my money, mother fucker?" Initially thought to be calls with drug dealers, the Newsweek reporter who accompanied the pollster discovered those on the other end of the phone calls were congressional leaders.

Twenty-one percent of those polled said they knew someone with a disease or disability that might benefit from the research. Of these, four percent said they still opposed the research based on Tom Cruise' assessment of the late Christopher Reeve's ventilator dependence as "pseudoscience."

Cruise made the comment last week in a now famous interview with NBC Dateline's John Hockenberry. Cruise was said to have misunderstood John's reference to studio executive Izzy Furee's comment that Cruise "can get all his perks back when he agrees to make Top Gun 2, in a jet, wearing an oxygen mask."

After pointing out that Cruise had confused the name "Izzy Furee" with “Christopher Reeve" and Izzy's reference to oxygen, Cruise became visibly excited and breathlessly insisted, "John, John, John, John, John, John, you don't know the history of oxygen. I do." After Cruise hyperventilated and fell to the floor, Hockenberry rolled over him, the back wheel of his wheelchair snagging the hinge that held what is now known was Cruise' electronic brain in place. Wanna-be widow Katie Holmes has announced that his memorial service will be a small affair, to be held upon a privately funded space shuttle scheduled to launch in the coming days from an undisclosed location at Area 51.

Ahem.

The entire stem cell research debate may not be of political concern much longer and isn't much of a voting concern now. America's attention-deficit has kicked in with regard to the issue with a whopping fifty-five percent of registered voters saying they care, but only when talking to pollsters. Seventeen percent of voters openly admit they don't care bout their candidate's position on stem cell research and 22 percent show up and vote for whoever has the catchiest name.

President Bush remains rigid on the issue of stem cell research, despite the breakthrough, saying "This technique does not resolve my concerns, and don't ask me what those concerns are, either! God almighty, I can't get a friggin' break from these people. What? Jesus Christ, if you can tell me what to say, you can sure as hell tell me when to stop saying it! Clear your throat, wave a flag, something, anything. When's lunch?”

Newsweek's poll showed 31 percent of Americans think Bush' handling of the issue is just dandy while 52 percent think he's the reason scientists now know stem cells can be extracted without destroying a potentially big fat cry baby.

Health and Not-So-Well Being

2006-08-28T20:40:00.000+02:00

A look at sex and its consequences.

Young Lust

While one report says fewer high schoolers are having sex, another says those who pledge virginity lie about their sexual experiences. Maybe that has something to do with the music they listen to. Music may tell us why they're having sex, but it doesn't explain why they're having sex when they don't want to.

Many young women have sex with their boyfriends because they feel pressured into it, afraid that the boyfriend will be angered if they don't. His anger may have something to do with violent television programming, but he should beware. While some girls are having sex when they don't want to, others are just as violent on a date as their male counterpart.

Once in the back seat or on the beach, studies show that most teens aren't, won't be, or choose not to be prepared. This same study revealed that almost half the girls in the study had had "unwanted sex." What's the difference between "rape" and "unwanted sex"? There's no difference according to the Archives of Pediatrics & Adolescent Medicine or the New York City Alliance Against Sexual Assault.

To be precise, rape is a form of unwanted sex, of which there are many forms, according to Stephen J. Schulhofer, Julius Kreeger Professor of Law and Criminology and Director of the Center for Studies in Criminal Justice at the University of Chicago Law School and author of Unwanted Sex: The Culture of Intimidation and the Failure of Law.

No one in the study referred to the forceful males as "unwanted," but another study did mention that herpes has been found to be a frequent infection in adolescent girls. They are also at higher risk for other sexually transmitted diseases, cervical cancer, and pregnancy.

Given the regularity of unwanted and unprotected sex, many are relieved to hear the morning-after pill (also known as Plan B) is being made available without a prescription. This news applies only to people (men and women) over the age of 18. Minor females will still need a prescription.

Aspirin and Accidents

Trying to avoid the heartbreak of recurrent miscarriage means looking no further than the medicine chest. Aspirin's blood-thinning qualities are believed to protect against the formation of blood clots (thrombosis), a condition thought to be a cause of recurrent miscarriage.

While shopping for aspirin, ladies, you might to be on the look out for a younger man. Regardless of your age, his age tips the scale out of your favor as he gets older. He's three times more likely to provide an inadequate specimen after the age of 35 than in his 20's. At age 40, the risk is 60 percent greater.

If you do opt for a younger man, make sure you've got some life insurance on him and read the fine print that includes talk of double indemnity and suicide clauses. The leading causes of death in men up to the age of 34 is accidents and suicide. Don't think a man with an accent is all that -- the numbers represent men from all over the world.

Finally, Bundles of Joy and the Birth Rate

From posted signs to petitions, society has had it with ill-behaved children. These little people naysayers describe out of control children as a public nuisance. They advocate child-free restaurants, compare them to cigarette smoke, and assert dogs smell better, behave better, and look better.

Take heart, oh ye child weary. The birth rate is at an all-time low for the 12th year in a row.

Healthy Brains Cut Funding for Treating Injured Brains

2006-08-28T20:36:00.000+02:00

Where's the Wizard now, Scarecrow? The Tin Man killed him.

Get sent to war. Get brain injured. Get home with anything from headaches and disturbed sleep to memory loss and behavior issues. Get to the treatment facility and understandably expect treatment for your injury. After all, you're a United States Military Servicemember and by God, we support you!

Nope! At least nope by half, say those in charge of having sent you to war in the first place. Your government-sponsored travel agency is made up of the same people who are now alloting $7 million for the Defense and Veterans Brain Injury Center (DVBIC) instead of the $14 million the Center received last year.

Proponents are shocked that funding for treating war injured is being cut during a war. Martin Foil, a member of the DVBIC's board of directors, ironically summed up his thoughts over the cuts with, "It blows my imagination."

Alas, those behind the cuts are not without remorse. "Honestly, they would have loved to have funded it, but there were just so many priorities," says spokeswoman for the Senate Appropriations Committee, Jenny Manley.

Let us pause for a moment and reflect on Jenny's words, representative of all the healthy-brain power behind the decision to cut the funding for brain injury treatment in half. They would have "loved" to have funded it, but brains that don't belong to them just aren't a priority.

How heartfelt. Where's the Wizard now, Scarecrow? The Tin Man killed him.

The week of June 11th of this year, the House of Representatives voted to give members of Congress a pay raise, and almost annual event for the past ten years.

The appropriations committees in both chambers skirted responsibility for the decision they made by referring to a tight budget. This is to say the appropriations committees didn't so much make the cuts as the tight budget made them do it.

Meanwhile, families of the brain injured are trying to figure out how they might use the "tight budget" argument to keep from paying rent so as to free up monies to secure treatment for their wounded family members. Additionally, criminal defendants throughout the country perked up upon hearing the old "made me do it" defense is once again viable.

The Pentagon has refused the DVBIC's recommendations that returning troops be screened for symptoms and that a database of brain injury victims should be created. Instead, the Pentagon insists on more research. Where the Pentagon will get that research without screening troops or creating a database is anyone's guess.

Hunting Humans: Tintype Photos

2006-08-28T20:33:00.000+02:00

The world of genealogy, specifically researching one's own family history, holds many surprises, discoveries, and more information than you could shake a family tree at. Er, at which you could shake a, oh never mind.

In the first installment of Hunting Humans, we took a good, long look at the United States census. A seemingly dry source of information, it is loaded with realities with which to counter many a lively family story -- or that can kick life into what was previously thought to be a boring story. I've personally found, via the census, a few family recounts about long, lost relatives to be most untrue. While the census may have its errors (to enumerate is human), a particular person of a particular age found in a particular geographical location when said to have been elsewhere is not one of them.

What wasn't told at the dinner table was often told to the census enumerator. Case in point from my mother's side: my great-Aunt Odessa. As related to me, Odessa ran away as an unwed teen with an attitude problem and a pronounced distaste for her mother (my great-grandmother). The latter may in fact be true as my great-grandmother babysat me many times. That woman was hell on wheels and I don't mean that kindly. I was further told that Odessa's father (my great-grandfather) met an untimely demise at the elusive hands of my great-grandmother (shh!) and that this had something to do with why Odessa ran away.

The census says my great-grandfather was not dead but rather alive and kicking in another state. He had remarried a woman with three children and Odessa was living with them. If she was pregnant, no child resulted that showed up in the census as hers; but then the census doesn't ask every question (back-alley abortions, unofficial adoptions, etc) and no one has to answer every question posed to them. Curiously, the story my family didn't want me to know is so much more benign than what actually happened.

My great-grandfather and his new wife were the real secret-keepers. In the 1930 census, they both list themselves as being on their first marriage and married for 24 years. We could say the enumerators of both 1920 and 1930 were wrong, or we could say someone(s) had something up their sleeves. The 1920 census clearly lists my great-grandfather, my great-grandmother, and Odessa all in the same home. Additionally, the new wife's children, sporting a different last name than my great-grandfather and listed great-grandpa’s stepchildren, were all born before my great-grandfather found himself on the other side of my great-grandmother's door. Good stuff, eh? But, I digress.

This installment of the wonders of ancestry-ness takes us into the earlier realms of photography.

The tintype, also known as the ferrotype or melainotype, was a process of developing photographs in the late 1800's. Unlike the photographic paper used in the 20th century, the tintype process used a thin sheet of black enameled iron and was a slightly more durable photo than the ambrotype of the mid 1800's, which used a glass plate. At that time, the ambrotype was preferred to the previous daguerreotype, so named for one of its inventors, Louis-Jacques-Mandé Daguerre. The daguerreotype used a polished silver surface with silver halide and iodine vapor.

I had no idea of tintypes until a recent trip to see my family in the United States. With the passing of my grandparents, my father came into possession of many family photos, including several tintypes. Fortunately, the subjects of all but one of these photos had been identified. I say "fortunately" as there are many families coming across these photos in attics and basements with no accompanying identification. More unfortunate is the discarding of these images for lack of knowing who is who. My father's only unidentified tintype is this one of two lovely ladies. Lovely being a relative term. I gotta say, I don't care much for the haunting feel of some older images. A little extra light would've gone a long way.

My father and I were concerned about the effects of flash photography or the light of a scanner on the tintypes. As it was a weekend, and reputable photography businesses were closed, we took it upon ourselves to test the corner of a tinytpe on the scanner with no ill effect. The scans produced clear reproductions so there will be no need to subject the tintypes to this kind of light again.

Those new to tintype or any antique photo but who have a knack for digital repair would do well to maintain copies of original scans to minimize the amount of light to which the photo is exposed. While certainly durable (my father's tintypes are as much as 142 years old), the tintype does possess certain fragilities and its image is not immune to the elements. Moisture of any kind can cause extensive damage and it doesn't take much to bend the metal or scratch the image. Dusting or cleaning of a tintype is strongly discouraged as this can remove the image. As with any historical item and/or family heirloom, proper care must be employed with a tintype.

My great-grandfather James Palmer Rankin appears several times in tintype during his days looking for work around Pennsylvania in the late 1890’s and working in the oil fields of the Midwest in the early 1900's.

My great-great grandparents, George and Susannah (Krape) Day, are seen here with three of their children in 1864. A not altogether delightful looking woman, it is worth noting that Susannah lost three children between the births of Hendrick (left) and George (middle). Reuben and Adam died as infants and Flora died at 18 months of age. Additionally, Susannah lost another infant, Harry, in 1879. The baby in this picture is Burdo. There is no record of miscarriages or stillbirths for Susannah. Nonetheless, she gave birth to 13 children. My great-grandmother, Sarah, was Susannah's eigth child. Sarah would go on to marry my great-grandfather, James, who appears in the photographs above.

There you have it, my fellow human hunters. Tintypes are special. Don't throw them away, even if you don't know who is who, and take good care of them!

Join me next time for a look at V Mail, where we will explore images of my great-uncle's WWII communications from the South Pacific.

A Nervous Breakdown of My Day

2006-08-28T18:26:00.000+02:00

I thought life was so hard when the kids were young -- and it was hard, because I was so young, too.

I've sent another child off halfway around the world, this time to Kansas. He was in Spain just a few weeks ago, visiting a friend from North Carolina. I missed him then, too.

He spent much of his last days with friends. That's what youngsters do. I did it myself at that age -- assumed my family would always be there.

I wasn't sure if or when it would hit him that he was leaving us as well. Yesterday morning, on the way to the car, he dropped his bags and hugged me so tight I couldn't maintain my composure.

Suddenly, it was a four-year-old's arms around my neck, even though they were attached to an almost six foot tall frame. His life flashed before my eyes -- his first step, his first word, the first time his tiny hand patted me on the back as I held him.

One would think goodbyes get easier, but there is a completely different set of physics at work. When the kids were babies, I was often told to let them cry else they'd get spoiled. The urge to hold has never gone away from me.

As a young mother I tried so hard to ignore them but I just couldn't, and I didn't, and I haven't, to this day.

His sister left home for California not long ago. At the airport, she cried into my shoulder. I cried into her hair. She smelled the same then as she did when she was just a few hours old.

Her tears weren't like that of a grown person, rather of a small child. Tiny tears. By the time I got home, I found myself doing what I've only read about.

I wept, uncontrollably.

I thought life was so hard when the kids were young -- and it was hard, because I was young, too. It's funny how things that exhaust us change over time.

Seems like everything I worried about years ago isn’t that important nowadays. It was a good thing I had the strength and energy to run after two toddlers going in two different directions. It's a different kind of energy I need now.

They're still going in two different directions, but way back then I could catch them. Not so anymore.

When they call from wherever they are, I'm as excited as a young schoolgirl getting a call from a boy. How goofy am I?

Earlier today, I ran about the house cleaning, doing laundry, washing windows. Nothing worked to take my mind off my heart. I am reminded of my grandmother's best advice, "Don't just do something, stand there."

So for the rest of the day I just stood there. I watered the plants outside our building. My garden is the most pathetic one on the entire base (it's not a big base at all) but it's mine and I like it.

I stood there on the tennis court and only hit the balls that came right to me. Much to my surprise, most of them did. It wasn't much exercise for the body, but it was great for the mind.

And I stood there on the corner of the street and watched traffic go by. A few people honked. Isn't that strange? It couldn’t have been a woo-hoo-look-at-you kind of honk; I'm not the looker I used to be. It was more like those few knew why I was standing there -- to look at them -- and they just wanted to acknowledge it.

I hollared out "Honk" back at them, you know, in keeping with the spirit of things.

Ah, sweet life, bitter life, salty, spicy, tart, blechy, speeding by faster with each passing year life.

This is why my Grandmother wore brilliant purple clothes, large silver beads around her neck, and big, feathered hats to go grocery shopping. This is why she took us kids to the park for scream-sing contests -- because life is just too short to wear jeans everyday and we should hollar out while we all still can. With grace, without shame, and in full-on technicolor.

Life is indeed a banquet. Having to send my children off and away, I feel even better than I used to about giving them a little more cake and a little less brussel sprouts.

As for me, I'm not eating any more asparagus. I'm heading straight for the chocolate covered strawberries!

World Citizens To Save Third World From Breast Ironing

2006-08-28T18:03:00.000+02:00

African mothers aren't criminals. They are limited in their resources, lacking the physical strength and legislative power necessary to invoke the only viable alternative.

Those outside the third world have discovered yet another atrocity of that world: breast ironing -- a process of applying heat, pressure, and violent massage to a young female's budding breasts in an attempt to squelch their growth.

This is not a practice inflicted upon young girls by oppressive men. Rather it is their female relatives who do this -- their mothers, grandmothers, aunts, and big sisters -- as it was done to them. Breast ironing is about a four-million females and many generations-strong practice in countries like Cameroon, West and Central Africa, including Chad, Togo, Benin, and Guinea-Conakry.

The motivation is not religious and is only cultural if one thinks avoiding danger is a characteristic of a culture. Unlike the practices of using neck rings, foot binding, and corsetry (or tightlacing) to enhance one's natural beauty by ungodly and unnatural means, breast ironing is an ungodly and unnatural practice meant to minimize and even eliminate a young girl's allure. We will never mind beautiful eyes, luscious lips, and a sway that must be jelly 'cos jam don't shake like that. We will instead count our blessings that no one has yet thought to use live slaughter as a preventative measure.

Yes, I said, "preventative." All those mothers in all those African nations aren't stupid. They are, however, as limited in their resources as they are lacking the physical strength and legislative power it would take to invoke and enforce the only alternative to breast ironing the mothers would be willing to accept before giving up the practice.

This lack of resources and the inability of these mothers to secure the alternative is not the source of "civilized" angst. Rather it is the only answer these mothers have come up with that is the reason for the cries heard from as close-by as the UK and as far away as the US -- We must stop them from hurting their daughters!

A campaign aimed at educating mothers about the dangers of breast ironing has been launched. The hope is to eradicate the practice with information. What is it the mothers don't know? According to a line from a campaign leaflet, they don't know that "A girl...has to be proud of her breasts because it is natural. It is a gift from God. Allow the breasts to grow naturally. Do not force them to disappear or appear." Interesting.

Thank goodness "civilization" has enough money to step in and tell them about the dangers of breast ironing, that its side-effects can and do include "severe pain and abscesses, infections, breast cancer, and even the complete disappearance of one or both breasts." Up to now, I guess the mothers hadn't even noticed any of this. Silly, uncivilized women.

The outrage about the practice and the efforts made to eradicate it are as useless and benign as the desired result of the practice is evasive. Every mother and other female relative speaking in defense of this practice has stated the reason for it over and over, and for naught. No one seems to want to repeat everything the mothers say.

The campaign members heard "breast ironing" and stopped listening. They've embarked on this educational and informative campaign, writing furiously about this barbaric practice, and still, no one mentions the real deal here, the nitty gritty, the smoking gun. No one -- not CNN's article detailing the practice and the history of it, not the BBC's article about the campaign to stop the practice, nor Canada's CBC article urging donations to the campaign -- has pointed the finger and aimed the fire at the actual cause.

Sadly, all these mothers could submit all their girl children to sex-change operations and it would do little to meet their need. The motivation behind the practice is said to be to lessen the young girl's physical allure. If this is indeed the motivation, and we've no doubt it is as defined by those who bemoan the practice, then the practice needs to be stopped, right?

Well, sure, if you've never read and/or understood a damn thing about logical fallacy. But if you have, you're with me on this and have been since the beginning. The rest of you, try to keep up.

If you are one of those still lost, I'm going to torture you for a few more paragraphs because the pain of the wait (assuming you have as much patience as you have ability to fly off the handle and support worthless causes) might well serve to further ingrain the lesson once you've learned it.

Yes, I said "worthless," as in a campaign to stop mothers from ironing their daughters' breasts by way of educating them about natural beauty is a worthless cause. The mothers and daughters are not worthless, nor are their breasts and their beauty; just the cause. Ironically, this worthless venture has accrued a great deal of money. It's worth something to someone, but not to those for whom it is supposedly directed.

The campaign is worthless to those who engage in breast ironing because it seeks to educate women about their own natural beauty -- the very thing the mothers are so aware of that they seek to minimize it. We could ask why the mothers are doing this and then dump time and money into that, but instead we throw millions of dollars into a program that serves no other purpose than to tell these women what they already know: breasts are natural and beautiful.

The "civilized" world has little need for solutions and cures. Oh sure, we say it's all about solving problems and wiping bad things from the surface of the earth, but actions speak louder than words -- and the action of campaigning to stop breast ironing instead of campaigning to stop the reason for the breast ironing is loud and clear: "We're not out to make you feel better; we're out to make ourselves feel better." A lot of money could be saved and the same thing would result by simply dropping a few dozen leaflets from the sky that say:

Dear Mothers and Daughters, Women and Girls,

Stop denying your female beauty.

Sincerely, The World

Unfortunately, the reason given by these mothers and other female relatives for breast ironing, to suppress and lessen the budding female's sexual attractiveness, is for naught. The "civilized" world knows this. They're going after the mothers instead of what the mothers fear because going after the actual cause would not only cast a dismal shadow on their charitable efforts, it would also shine a glaring light on how ineffective they are at preventing this very problem within their own societies.

Those of you I left behind a few paragraphs ago, here's the dealio: The mothers who iron their daughters' breasts do think breasts are beautiful. Unfortunately, rapists think so, too. Rape is not a crime in many African nations. It is seen as a right of the male gender. In this, even those males who are not predisposed to violence see rape, not as a crime, but as an acceptable, non-criminal behavior.

As bad as breast ironing is, it is, at least in the hearts of minds of many African mothers, the only preventative to the otherwise inevitable sexual assault of their daughters. They know this because many of them have been raped themselves. They've heard rumor that men don't like women or girls who don't have breasts (read: natural beauty), thus they do the one thing they can: get rid of the breasts. Unfortunately, these rumors about men aren't true. While men might not have sex with a woman or girl who has no breasts, rapists will and do. Pedophiles are even less particular. Who is who in a society where males are allowed to run hormonally and criminally free is any mother's guess.

While those males who aren't inclined to violence might learn through attrition that rape is wrong, they haven't yet. Those who are so inclined are not going to be more or less inclined by outward appearance. They need only an available victim to commit their crime.

Many societies throughout Africa have instilled the right to rape in the hearts of minds of the male gender. This is not the angle from which our "civilized" donors feel the strength to fight. They've lost the battle on their own soil and can't bring themselves to admit it. They have instead opted for the cowardly and ineffective road that leads to and ends with those who have to live with the threat -- not those who present the threat. No matter; they're doing a good deed.

While the actions of the breast ironing mothers can be explained, the actions of the "civilized" and their campaign cannot. Seeking to educate women about their beauty when the real problem is rapists is not much different than removing all the food from a society so poor and hungry they've resorted to stealing food. While removing the food will prevent food from being stolen, it hardly addresses the problem of hunger or poverty. But of course, this assumes the sought-after solution had something to do with hunger and poverty.

The members of the campaign to eradicate breast ironing might be interested to know that a Google search of the keywords "characteristics" and "rapist" results in no link wherein the word "beauty" is found.

Might I suggest an alternative campaign -- eradicating those who sexually assault their fellow human beings? Yes, too simple for overachievers and too costly for fiscal chickenshits, but maybe those with a wee bit more moxie could put a program in place that would insure enforcement of the following notice as it is dropped from the sky by way of millions of leaflets:

Dear Fathers and Sons, Men and Boys,

You will stop assaulting females. This is not nature's course. The world doesn't revolve around your penis. You are going to be removed from society as even your most minor infraction has consistently predicated, not the intent of, but rather the act of criminal behavior. Look behind you. Those guys are going to take you away and see that you are not released back into society until you get it through your thick skull that females are not there for your taking. If you don't graduate from our program, you get to repeat it as many times as is necessary. Should you die here, good on you; so will your next opportunity to rape. If you do graduate, you will be afforded the opportunity to teach this program abroad (the US, Europe, and other exotic locales) where sexual assault, while illegal, continues to afford the criminal short sentences, early releases, and the opportunity to assault again.

Have a nice day.

Sincerely, The World

Anything less, oh ye "civilized" citizens of the world, is just throwing money -- and breasts -- away.

The Grandest Fourth of July - 1976

2006-08-28T18:02:00.000+02:00

I've measured every patriotic event against that day. All fall short with histrionic, hyped-up attempts at externally prompting that which can only be internally felt.

As a child, the Fourth of July used to mean going to the drive-in to see a live-action Disney film, always something along the lines of The Apple Dumpling Gang. A foam mattress was plopped onto the roof of my parent's station wagon and we four kids followed, along with a lone bucket of popcorn and two sodas between us.

After the movie, there was a spectacular display of color and light followed by a crackly rendition of the Star Spangled Banner over a few hundred box-speakers dangling precariously from the windowpanes of all the cars. It was a wonderful and relatively meaningless tradition until years later when my parents announced different plans for the holiday.

The best Fourth of July I've ever experienced was during the opening ceremonies of the Bicentennial celebration at Cessna Stadium in Wichita, Kansas in 1976. Following an unprecedented number of heartwarming, patriotic performers was an equally unprecedented fireworks display, the likes of which Wichita had never seen. The sky lit up such that one could see for miles away if one could even take their eyes off of the layers upon layers of color and light. All of this synchronized to Wichita's first ever radio music show broadcast in perfect timing with the fireworks displays both in the air and on the ground.

But that wasn't the grandest part.

Before the festivities began, the stadium was called to its feet as the color guard from nearby McConnell Air Force Base began its march across the length of the field. Everyone, including the thousands surrounding the stadium up and down Hillside and stretching for many blocks along 21st Street, was silent. The color guard had gone about 20 steps when someone in the stadium began to sing "The Star Spangled Banner." I don't mean someone had been hired to do so nor was the person anywhere near a microphone. I mean a random someone began singing.

By the fourth line of the anthem, the swell of voices had reached me and my family way up in the cheap seats. Too, there was an unseen wave of emotion that gently rocked every row as it made its way up the bleachers and into the high risers. The faint echo of those on the street could barely be heard but soon it was strong and I was completely taken aback by the scores of people who knew every word of every verse.

By the second verse, several square blocks and hundreds of thousands of people were singing in near-unison, loud but not shouting, proud but not pious. No color guard has ever been so accompanied. We had all come singularly to celebrate in this, our day. And here we all were, together, to rejoice in this, our country.

It was the single-most splendid day of my life as an American. I've since measured every patriotic event against that day, and all have fallen depressingly short with their histrionic, half-hearted, hyped-up attempts at externally prompting that which can only be internally felt.

Years later I would send my children from by my side to greet their father upon his return from six months in Iraq and Liberia. I always made sure I was last to greet him because my hugs took the longest. Not long before that deployment, I'd sent them to greet him upon his return from the Adriatic Sea and Croatia. Before that, Turkey, Norway, and Okinawa. Before the planes would land or the busses would pull in, the Commands would have set up an area for families to gather, enjoy refreshments, and listen to patriotic music.

While parents, grandparents, and children thought little of it and in fact enjoyed it, I wasn't the only spouse who thought the playing of patriotic music was not only annoying, but also inappropriate.

The reunion of servicemembers with their spouses is not a celebration of this country's founding and its freedoms. The reunion is the final chapter in a love story. We the spouses and servicemembers endure indefinable hardships while we are separated. We worry for each other, writing thousands of words back and forth, trying desperately to keep it light and loving when the realities from both sides of the deployment are ever-looming. What should be played at reunions is "Nights in White Satin."

Whether it was the piercing fluorescent lights of the hospital room where a severely injured child lay or the bursts of blinding flash from roadside bombs, what we celebrate when we are finally able to be with each other is our undying love and dedication to each other. The country got what it wanted; now, it can bloody well wait while my children get to know the smell that is uniquely their father, and he and I get to hold and be held by the only person we've come to love.

This, I suddenly realize, is the unbridgeable gap between that deeply touching moment in Cessna stadium and every Fourth of July celebration I've attended since: love. The day is now dressed up in red, white, and blue, forced upon us like some sort of cough medicine. Songs that used to define and inspire have since been replaced by glorified jingles.

Flags fly and so few really know why. The Preamble is recited and so few really know what the words mean. Being American is no longer a choice made or a lifestyle second to none. It's been made out to be an unmovable solid when nothing is more fluid and mobile than those who made it all possible and the things they did to make their dreams a reality -- our reality. Our homage is obligatory. What could be more loveless?

That day, that solemn moment in 1976 was not about freedom and democracy. It was not a celebration of many different things for many different people. It was about one family, the Americans, and their undying love for the family head they'd all gathered to greet: the United States. People said "Happy Birthday" to each other and rejoiced in the fact that we'd made it. I was only 14-years-old. I didn't know what they meant -- made what?

We were all so happy, to be sure, for each other and ourselves, but more than that, my fellow Americans were relieved -- relieved to have endured 200 years of tyranny, enslavement, wars, and disease and come out on the better side of humanity. Generations of people from all over the world had come together decade after decade, now century after century, contributing to what would one day be this moment in time, no one person left out of this history made from a stew of liberties, oppression, will, weakness, and determination.

While the Star Spangled Banner is primarily an acknowledgement of our flag's survival through battle, it is the essence of that which we should be celebrating -- our own survival, thriving, strong backs, bravery, fortitude, and love. The flag still waves on poles across the nation because it's made out of synthetic fibers that resist flame and weather. We the people are still able to wave them because we are made from the surest stock of every country on the planet.

I read in the papers and see the stories on TV of those who are forever looking, finding, and/or providing the easiest ways out of working, providing, contributing, and being someone that would reflect accurately on the massive gene pool whence they came. I feel discouraged and not so patriotic. It is especially disheartening to see citizens pitted against each other, having chosen this or having been manipulated into it. Then I remember the days my husband and thousands of other Marines disembarked and I remember that day in Cessna Stadium.

It's good to be American. It's great to know why.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Nights in White Satin by The Moody Blues

Nights in white satin/ Never reaching the end/ Letters I've written/ Never meaning to send.
Beauty I'd always missed/ With these eyes before/ Just what the truth is/ I cant say anymore.
'Cause I love you/ Yes, I love you/ Oh, how, I love you.

Gazing at people/ Some hand in hand/ Just what I'm going thru/ They can understand.
Some try to tell me/ Thoughts they cannot defend/ Just what you want to be/ You will be in the end,
Nights in white satin/ Never reaching the end/ Letters I've written/ Never meaning to send.
Beauty I'd always missed/ With these eyes before/ Just what the truth is/ I cant say anymore.
The Star Spangled Banner by Francis Scott Key

Oh, say can you see by the dawn's early light
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming?
Whose broad stripes and bright stars thru the perilous fight,
O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming?
And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there.
Oh, say does that Star-Spangled Banner yet wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?
On the shore, dimly seen through the mists of the deep,
Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes,
What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep,
As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses?
Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam,
In full glory reflected now shines in the stream:
'Tis the star-spangled banner! Oh long may it wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

And where is that band who so vauntingly swore
That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion,
A home and a country should leave us no more!
Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' pollution.
No refuge could save the hireling and slave
From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave:
And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

Oh! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand
Between their loved home and the war's desolation!
Blest with victory and peace, may the heav'n rescued land
Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a nation.
Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just,
And this be our motto: "In God is our trust."
And the Star-Spangled Banner in triumph shall wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

From The Mouths of Babes

2006-08-28T18:00:00.000+02:00

Children manage to say the most delightful, funny, and sometimes inappropriate things, no matter how young or old they are.

For better or worse, children manage to say the most delightful, funny, and sometimes inappropriate things no matter how young or old they are. As often, they are egged on by the adults around them.

While playing with a toy set of a village at ages three and four, my mother's daycare charges argued about the time in their make-believe land. Finally, one looked up at my mother and asked, "Is it today?"

My four-year-old niece, Abby, crawled up in my sister's lap after bonking her head on the coffee table. "Did you apologize to the table?" my sister asked. Incredulous, Abby replied, "No!" My sister asked, "Did the table apologize to you?" "No!" Abby exclaimed. My sister asked "Why not?" Abby knew. "Because it doesn't has a mouth!"

Through the years, my husband, Robert, has taken great delight in what can only be described as "How to make the children's teachers call my wife." Abram and Therese struggled with their 4th-grade math homework. I've always been math-illiterate, so my husband took the reigns. The children later scampered off to bed, elated with their newfound understanding of what had presumably been a difficult concept. The following day I received a phone call from their teachers asking that we stick with the mulitplication and division exercises and refrain from teaching the children Pythagorean Theorem.

In another dad-induced moment o' fun, my daughter's kindergarten teacher called to say "Amelia's turn at Show-n-Tell was enlightening." The theme for that day was Things That Fly. Amelia told everyone what her father had told her: Birds haven't always known how to fly. It wasn't until planes were invented that birds looked up into the sky, saw the planes, and said to themselves, "We can do that!" And so they did.

Amelia was in second grade when I told her she could go with a friend to the friend's church. We aren't a religious family but I didn't think much one visit. Later in the week, she and I were driving past a construction site where the workers were building the frame of a new home. Amelia commented, "They sure are doing a good job of tearing that house down." "They're not tearing it down honey, they're building it," I told her. In the rearview mirror, I could see she was giving this information a great deal of thought. She asked softly, "People build houses?" "Yes," I answered. She still looked puzzled. I distinctly remember being eight-years-old and how unsettling it felt to learn that Washinton DC and Washington state were not the same thing and were on opposite sides of the country. So I asked Amelia gently, "Who did you think built houses?" She said, "God." We drove a few miles further in silence. Finally she spoke while when we were stopped in traffic, "Do people build cars, too?"

That was an interesting night at dinner.

As a military family, we'd moved 13 times in 17 years. Not long after arriving at this duty station, our son entered the hospital for surgery on his knee. He told us later that he'd awakened up in the middle of the night and felt a little disorinented. He said he felt better when he was able to make out his CD player laying on the table next to him. "I'm a good military kid. I just thought 'Oh, there's my stuff. This must be my new home.'"

My husband has been the only father my two older children have known since they were just two and three-years-old. My daughter was a sophomore in high school when she was sent to the principal's office for something she said she had not done and was very upset about being in trouble. My husband and I were called in for a conference. In light of her many and recent antics, my husband was sure she'd played some part in what had happened, and told her as much. While I sat with her and the principal, my husband went out into the hall to speak with her teacher. The principal was going over her records and said "Your dad's name is..." and spoke my ex-husband's name. My daughter, thoroughly disgusted with every adult present, exclaimed, "That's my biological's name. My DAD is the &%$# in the hall!"

My daughters have yet to let their normally articulate brother live down his assessment of a song he'd heard: "That sucks even bad."

Amelia dodged a mundane chat partner by typing, "Oh no! Little digital squares! You're breaking up. You're breaking up! Aahhrrrggh!" Click.

After Therese saw the movie, Weather Man, her review couldn't have been less enthusiastic. "It was boring, boring as crap. I'm just trying to learn how to smile again."

Please do share the verbal antics of the children in your life. From the mouths of babes.

Stuttgart, Germany's Fight: The World Cup's Non-Event

2006-08-28T17:50:00.000+02:00

If we say Stuttgart was rioting and rampaging, then we must reclassify the uprisings in L.A. and Paris as Armageddon.

Saturday, June 24, 2006. Schlossplatz, Stuttgart, Germany.

There was a big party centered around a few big screen TVs broadcasting the World Cup Game between Germany and Sweden from Munich. There were thousands and thousands and thousands of people from all over the world. There was a non-stop flow of beer from every booth, tent, cafe, and personal cooler. The smell of bratwurst, schnitzel, and freshly baked pretzels filled the air. It was quite warm and the sun had only begun to ease up. There was singing, dancing, chanting -- and suddenly a lot of yelling. Numerous men decked out in black riot gear from head to toe moved in packs between what was quickly assessed as two opposing groups.

Plastic chairs began flying through the air. The singing turned ugly. Melodious insults came from several directions in several languages. Heavily inebriated groups of men punched the air with their fists and and many of the drunk were visibly having trouble recalling the next personal remark set to tune. Many more nearby belted out the next line and those suffering from an acute lack of gross motor skills resumed their place in the choir. More chairs were vaulted back and forth. A lone beer was slung from one side of the crowd and the slinger was taken to the ground by his friends who chastised him for wasting beer.

The armoured men continued to push, weave, and snake their way through and around the crowd like a thick, determined caterpillar, growing in length, ever persistent. The drunken crowd was exhausted from the heat and grew ever weary against the relentless sober line of Polezei (police). Within a relatively short period of time, calm was restored and the only indication that a problem had existed was a pile of white plastic chairs and litter strewn throughout the area. Had one arrived at that moment without any knowledge of what had happened, one might have thought someone had tried to create a pyramid of the chairs and failed.

This is what many in the world media reported as a "riot," having gone so far as to say the fans were "rampaging through Stuttgart." The American media displayed particular gall when reporting that "thousands of German and English fans...are currently rioting in the city." This, in light of the fact that any riot taking place for any reason in any American city, comparable to or even smaller than the approximately two million of Stuttgart, would have involved shots being fired from both civilians and law enforcement, significant injury from fist, knife, and gun, destruction of buildings and cars, and death. For the record, there were not "thousands" of people causing the trouble; there were hundreds.

Let us never mind that no "riot" on record has ever been quelled with little more than arrests for drunkenness and a mess of pepper spray in a few hours' time. A little perspective, please. Riots aren't over in less than the better part of a day. Riots involve rubber bullets, real bullets, packed emergency rooms, and arrests for assault, arson, and homicide. The incident in Stuttgart was a heated exchange of words, over-dramatized by those who weren't even there. At most, it was a brawl between two rivals -- rivals known to and prepared for by authorities, and taken care of in a professional and timely manner.

My host nation's generous accommodations and fast-acting law enforcement needn't be slandered and dragged through the mud to sell newspapers and attract viewers. The very least the world reporters could have done was to have been there before doing that.

Ich Liebe Stuttgart!

The New American Dream

2006-08-28T17:40:00.000+02:00

Issues surround the reporting and investigations of the Haditha incident. I have an issue myself.

It's not the Iraqis' assessment of the November Haditha incident that I take issue with, although it's worth noting the time difference between Lt. Gen. Peter Chiarelli's (Commander of U.S.-led forces in Iraq) February order to investigate and Iraq's own investigative launch just days ago. Americans get antsy standing in line for more than 15 minutes but Iraqis quietly waited seven months for its own government to start looking into things, and even then, no cheers or jeers. You'd think someone would've said something about their own government taking so long -- at least before saying the U.S. government was covering anything up. That must have been an interesting newscast for Iraqis: "This just in: Something happened in Haditha this fine November day. Film at June o'clock!"

It's not Arizona Republic cartoonist Steve Benson's June 7th cartoon I take issue with, although one must wonder where his pen and ink has been every time a terrorist let loose. Hell, not just any terrorist; let's start at the top. Touted as a martyr by the same country that now loathes Marines, the highly sought and now highly dead Abu Musab al-Zarqawi had at one time "massacred children clamoring for candy." That incident didn't seem to rate a dip into Steve's inkwell, but I can't find anything to back that up so we'll just call it a presumption. You know what a presumption is, don't you Steve? That's when you put your head up your ass and blow.

I believe in my heart of hearts that Steve did not "desecrate" the Marines' Eagle, Globe and Anchor. Up until now, I believed that while symbols could be desecrated, what they symbolized could not. Maybe what is symbolized can't be desecrated, but it can sure as hell be hung, beaten, and drug through the streets of America with America's blessing.

And that brings me to my issue.

My issue is with the general American civilian population -- those who have never served with the military and/or are not the child, spouse, or parent of a servicemember. If you would throw yourself in as a supporter, go ahead, but don't expect anything for it. As a Marine spouse, I've been chided one too many times about the money we "saved" while my husband spent time in a tax-free combat zone -- by civilians who then got into a vehicle displaying a yellow ribbon magnet. There are civilians working in tax-free zones, too, these being non-combat areas, but this doesn't seem to dissuade. The allegiance is dubious at best.

The same country that doesn't hold people personally responsible for their own weight gain and lung cancer has no business judging the decision making skills of Marines on their third tour right after one of them has been killed by an enemy. So far, the general American civilian population's contribution to its military is to sit back and indict from afar. You'd think a population born of the world's most adventurous people would have more the attitude of doing rather than just saying, but clearly that's not the case.

The oft-used "you chose to join the military" argument, used to justify any and all attacks on the military servicemember by those who have no idea what they're talking about, is easily deflated with one very simple reality: you chose NOT to join the military. Now I know, American civilians don't care much for the idea that they're personally responsible for anything, but don't worry; it's the only choice you'll ever make that you can't get out of with a lawyer. You're still covered in the event that you eat your way to heart disease, smoke until you can barely breathe, spill something hot on yourself, jettison onto the pavement after not putting on your seatbelt, or find yourself in need of military protection. Someone else will always be there to hold your hand, even as you're biting it.

Military servicemembers have long been thought to have a very different lifestyle than that of civilians. It would appear the disparity between the two has grown despite the growing access civilians have to the military life. It is no longer the dynamic of two lifestyles, but rather like that of two countries -- the United States of America and the United States of America Military. While the two exist under the same presidency, the two do not exist under the same government. The constitutional rights and responsibilities afforded one are not, in full, afforded the other.

Civilians pay taxes to provide for civilian defense whereas military servicemembers pay taxes to provide for everyone's defense and provide the defense itself. Military servicemembers assume responsibility and earns rights whereas civilians assume rights (specifically, those not guaranteed much less mentioned in the Bill of Rights) and delegate responsibility where it is not flat out dismissed. Where welfare and morale is a top priority in the military, the bottom line in the civilian world is profit. While civilians are held increasingly less responsible for their own choices, military servicemembers are held responsible for their choices and the choices of others. A popular notion held by many a civilian, and wholly unsupported by the constitution, is that they pay for their defense and therefore have say over those who defend. Conversely, these same civilians do not think those who defend their freedoms have the right to tell them, much less make them shut the fuck up. An interesting imbalance, not unlike President Bush using the people's money to spy on said people even though said people can get nowhere near him.

While there are those civilians who take issue with Benson's cartoon because they perceive it as painfully unpatriotic, I see it as the very essence of the new American dream: Use your freedoms to shove your responsibilities up the asses of those who defend those freedoms and then complain about how they handled those responsibilities.

But it's okay America -- Passive-aggressive personality is no longer considered a diagnostic category by the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. Just ask your lawyer.

The Beauty Of Every Naked Body

2006-08-28T17:39:00.000+02:00

With nothing to hide or hide behind, we're left with the only thing we really own.

When friends of mine from the states talked about coming to visit me here in Germany, they asked about visiting castles and other historical landmarks. Those are all wonderful, I told them, but so is the shopping, the walking paths, and the spas. As if I'd sent a needle across a record, our conversation fell silent; and even though we were all on the phone, I could tell everyone was looking at me.

Most of the spas here in Europe are nude. Not all of them, but I didn't tell my friends that.

Quite suddenly we were discussing the merits of perfect bodies and how those who don't have them shouldn't show them to the rest of the world. They told stories of 300 pound female bodies donned in denim and gauze-like material. They talked about flabby, middle-aged men in Speedos. They told these stories as if the world was made up of only two kinds of people -- perfect and most decidedly not perfect. There seemed to be no in-between for them. They talked as if perfection was real and wasn't the end result of physically airbrushing away freckles and healthy protruding blood vessels and digitally altering the least bit of contour out of the picture. They don't see themselves as perfect and automatically categorized themselves as not beautiful.

My oldest daughter and I stepped into our first nude spa holding hands. We were nervous and quite taken aback by all the nakedness. We were also too excited with the prospect of a new experience to pass it up. Others had told us about the wonderful days they'd spent in the spas. We, too, just had to know. With a knowing glance, she and I agreed that the row of men sprawled out under 12 heat lamps was probably the most disturbing thing we'd ever seen. While co-ed throughout, we tended to stay where there were mostly women. It was here that I came to understand just how beautiful the female form really is no matter what it looks like.

There's simply no comparing the sensation of a whirlpool in a swimsuit to the whirling bliss of bathing in the nude. It also helps that the healthcare system in Germany covers the cost of spa visits for its citizens. This makes it a very affordable venture for those not in that system. It costs me less than $20 for a day of visiting beautifully landscaped pools, heated grottos with hot water falling from afar, whirlpools, vibrating beds in cool rooms, and saunas of any given spa here. In the states, the same would cost me a healthy car payment -- and I'd have to wear a bathing suit.

It's no coincidence that the most popular piece of public-speaking advice is to picture everyone naked. Nudity is the great equalizer. Without a $600 suit, that man's GQ haircut is no longer the standout feature in the room. Without her Victoria's Secret underwire, that woman's sparkling diamond ring isn't what the other women are focusing on anymore. Seen for what we really are, we are no longer intimidating to the person who is nervous about speaking in public.

The nude spa is this same human experience -- in real life and on a much grander scale. With nothing to hide or hide behind, everyone is left with the only thing we really own -- own body. I think maybe my friends have a hard time picturing naked bodies that aren't perfect and haven't been airbrushed. In fairness to them, it would be a little weird if they did picture it because it isn't a norm for most people in the states. It's different for me, not just because I go to nude spas, but also because I've been drawing nudes most of my life, and most of the time with a live model. There is also the matter of my mother.

My mother's 1970 mastectomy at the age of 31 left her horribly scarred. Hers were not the comparably clean-cut lines of today's surgeries. She was a beautiful woman -- 5'9", long-legged, and brunette. She had bright eyes, a brilliant smile, a beautiful walk, and lovely mannerisms. She had a radical mastectomy that left her with a transparently thin sheath of skin between her breastbone and the rest of the world. The surgeons removed the sweat glands under her right arm and this left a gaping hole where her upper arm met her body. They took an 8"x10" graft of skin from her thigh and hoped it would take to her chest. It didn't. It infected and left yet more scarring. Another surgery to repair nerve damage left more scarring and more nerve damage. She didn't want anyone but me and her mother to help her dress or bathe when she needed it -- which was surprisingly not as often as one might think given the stiffness, immobility, and pain that so commonly set in after a radical mastectomy in those days.

I suppose you could say I got used to the way she looked, but rather it was that I came to appreciate what her body had been through, what her mind and heart had endured. In this, I was able to see the beauty of her experience, determination, stamina, and energy. It wasn't a matter of looking past the scars; it was more a matter of realizing what the scars meant and what they really represented. She didn't think she was beautiful, even before the surgeries, but I did. I've never seen anyone as beautiful as my mother.

I've not seen a nude female body in any spa that tells the horrific story my mother's body told, but each has their own. The bodies I've seen aren't difficult or disgusting to view on any level. They tell many stories and I can relate to some of those stories just as much as if the person talked about their experiences. Many of us could relate to the stories these bodies tell -- surgery, being pregnant with a big baby or more than one baby, walking everywhere, carrying small children, holding larger sick children, years of bending down to pick things up, and climbing stairs and hills with heavy bags of groceries. Combine the lines, scars, wrinkles, stretch marks, and varicose veins with the look in someone's eyes -- wisdom, sadness, and joy -- and you all but know their life story.

That others would compare everyone to a perfect, healthy, 20-yr-old standard is the loss of the one who would compare. They've lost more than they know. They don't know themselves as much as they could and so have never opened themselves up to knowing someone else. There is no comparison between our bodies any more than we can compare each other's minds or hearts. Who among us has a Harvard-educated mind, a well-traveled heart with a lifetime of experiences, and a firm and fully packed body? No one has all that. Having one will cost you another -- always.

Young, pretty, in-shape bodies are a pleasure for the eyes to behold, no doubt. The way some dress themselves, in-shape or not, speaks volumes of how they view themselves. Sometimes the story they tell with the way they dress is so sad and so lonely, it's hurtful to see. They'd be so much better off nude, sitting blissfully in a heated grotto of warm bubbling water. I've personally never thought it was funny to see out-of-shape, badly dressed people because there but for the grace of God and all that.

It's easy and convenient to judge others and their stories when our own flaws and sad tales (no pun intended) are covered up. When no one is covered with anything, it's quite suddenly not about the others or what they look like. It's very much about what others can see of us. More specifically, it's about what we see of ourselves and know we are showing the world.

When in a nude spa, we've no choice but to accept our every flaw. Either that or banish ourselves to the locker room. It's not about what we might see but rather what others might see. When nude, we can't hide behind our money, education, titles, and property. Whether they admit it or not, for most, nudity is less about modesty and more about status. In the nude, no one is rich or poor, educated or illiterate, a doctor or a maid. We are all the same -- naked. If we do come out from behind what we have and come to accept our every flaw, we'll soon come to see our own beauty. In so doing, we will be able to see the beauty in others and will soon realize others are seeing the same in us.

The Worst Parenting Advice Ever: "Let Them Go"

2006-08-28T17:30:00.000+02:00

I want to hug my daughter who lives on the other side of the world and I want to hold her right this minute.

My oldest daughter just moved away a few months ago to the other side of the world. I will see her in July sometime, but I am a mother and I want to hold my child right this minute.

When they were very young and took all of my time and energy, I humorously lamented that I couldn't wait for my kids to get jobs and get out.

Then they started school.

One little taste of that bitter dish was enough to humble me into never kidding around again.

Then they started jobs, began traveling, and went to college. More bitter tastes.

But in between, there were millions of sweet moments.
Savoring the moments was serious business and as it turned out, an awful lot of fun.

To this day, I contend the older two were two and three-years-old for ten years.

I still don't miss waking up at 5am to messes made by two toddlers who seemed to make it their goal in life to operate on as little sleep as possible.

I do miss the way they smelled (most times) and the soft squeaky lilt of their voices when they weren't at each other's throats or whining that bedtime had come yet again.

We marry spouses (generally and preferably) when they are grown people. We aren't faced with and we don't measure who they are today against the memories of having them in our arms as a tiny person, seeing them walk for the first time, going off to kindergarten, or learning to drive.

Be it to divorce or death, we lose our spouses but once. We lose our children over and over, such that by the time they're really grown, it's not that we don't want to let go of them, it's that we're weary from the many times we've already let them go.

I will assert from my heart of hearts, the heart that has heard the words "I want a divorce," "I had an affair," and "I don't want to be a father and a husband anymore," that "Let them go" simply does not apply to children. Sure it applies to every other person on the planet, many of whom are a lot easier to wipe off than others, but at no time does it apply to our children.

I may be wrong, but I assess those who offer said unsolicited advice as needing to distance themselves emotionally so that any goodbye is easier to stomach -- even if comes at the cost of their relationships with their children.

The physical manifestation of that which we know has been happening all along is just flat out hard -- and harder if your child has been a royal (and later redeemed) pain in the ass. Our child(ren) is the product of years of time, effort, and investment. When it's going or gone, who dares to say we cannot or should not grieve?

A child does at one time crawl away, walk away, drive away, and finally move away -- all things they couldn't have accomplished had we not "let them go" time and time and time again.

When they do move away, it's sometimes a whole lot further than any pair of legs or car could ever take them. This time, they take with them their hopes and dreams, wants and needs, knowledge and skills.

They leave behind a hollow space where at the bottom rests a drawing of their mother, something they drew with every color in the box when they were five-years-old.

I didn't realize until recently that I'd been raising myself right along with the kids. They weren't the only ones unable to walk or talk. I wasn't very good at using my legs to get away from people who didn't really care about me and I wasn't very good at communicating my needs. Now I am, and it's almost all due to the skills I acquired in the course of raising my children. I am who I am because of them.

When I was little, I was someone's sister, daughter, granddaughter, and cousin. I was the blonde neighbor, the tall girl in class, and the last one to reach puberty. I was rarely a person. When my kids were little, I defined myself as a mother first and a person second, if I defined myself as a person at all. Because I raised my children to be their own person, I became my own person in the process. They were born unto a mother. They left behind a person they call Mom. No greater a gift can be had.

All this emptiness is room to breathe (okay, initially gasp my way into hysterical hiccups) and it's where the drawing board is going to go -- the one I couldn't afford and didn't have room for until now. Beside that will go the dozens of plant stands for all the plants I couldn't have because the children might have sampled them the way they did the flour and cinnamon. Beside that will go the three tall bookcases it will take to hold 57 photo albums worth of my photographic obsession, something I now see as my having lovingly looked after the person I was going to be later who would want to go through them page by page, not box by box.

And now that's where I sit, in the middle of all these pages of photograph books, puffed up with memories and fingerprints and a little drop of what looks to be dried syrup.

It's been a wonderful and harrowing ride, this job of parenting. I'm so glad it's not really over.

Star Parker Aims Straight for Homosexual Mary Cheney

2006-08-28T17:21:00.000+02:00

Star Parker readily admits she didn't read the book she decries; rather she skimmed it for all of five minutes. She recommends the same practice to others. Given Ms Parker's thumping, it's a safe bet she doesn't advocate this approach to the Bible.

Ms Parker isn't happy about Mary Cheney's book, Now It's My Turn: A Daughter's Chronicle of Political Life, or Cheney's insistence that gay marriage has a rightful and, what should be, a legal place in our society. Ms Parker chides Ms Cheney based on "a few breezy sentences" Ms Cheney wrote. Let's try that again. Ms Parker chides Ms Cheney based on "a few breezy sentences" Ms Parker bothered to read:

Cheney effortlessly transforms traditional marriage and family from the core institution on which our free society is built into an instrument of oppression.

The core institution on which our free society is built? Wake up and smell the History Channel. Let's review those good old days of yore when our "free" society was being built. (Enter melodious harp music here) Ah yes, when every native person was subject to death, rape, torture, and, if they were lucky, simply driven off of their own land. When Blacks were enslaved, beaten, starved, raped, and their families torn apart over nothing more than economics. When Blacks, Catholics, Irish, Germans, Italians, Mexicans, Jews and women were denied education, housing, employment, and the right to own property. When Blacks and women were not allowed to take their issues to the polls.

Not all people had rights equal to those who made the laws. That's oppression. The instrument? The United States Constitution. Read it and weep. Seriously, don't just skim. Ms Cheney didn't transform tradition into an instrument of oppression, but that is certainly what a Federal Marriage Amendment would do. Go ahead; tell me how it wouldn't.

Ms Parker and a glaring lack of evidence concludes that,

Growth in black lesbianism is generally the product of a culture where families already have been destroyed. These aren't pioneers venturing out of an intact family that has given them a good life, to discover a new "lifestyle." The injustice and discrimination they feel is to never have had the opportunity to grow up in an intact family and to understand what it means to have a man in your life who is responsible and from whom you can receive love and respect.

Do I read this correctly to say the only reason a girl child would choose to be homosexual is because she was poor and her father was absent? Break out that psychology degree, Ms Parker. I think you might be on to something! (I'm sorry, break out that marketing degree.) Could all those wife-beating, child-molesting, family-abandoning, child-support-ducking, unemployed layabouts be the reason for all these lesbians running around?

If heart disease doesn't kill every last no-good man, the irony of this breakthrough could certainly do it.

When Chris Wallace of Fox News sparred hard with Ms Cheney, he asserted,

Once we say that gay couples have a right to have their commitments recognized by the state, it becomes next to impossible to deny the same right to polygamists, polyamorists, (which I learned means group marriage) or even cohabiting relatives and friends.

Ms Cheney countered,

It's one thing that I don't take very seriously. You know, look: What we are talking about are relationships between two consenting adults. I think that is the debate that we need to have. That is the discussion that our country needs to have.

Upon hearing this, Ms Parker fell over some straight white Republican in her sprint to the keyboard. Presumably she fell. Maybe. Hell, I don't know, I wasn't there -- in much the same way Ms Parker wasn't there for every page of Ms Cheney's book before waxing conservatively:

Now it is absolutely clear that legalization of gay marriage opens the door to every imaginable possibility. Once the authority for defining marriage moves from biblical tradition to politics, marriage will be defined by whatever might be deemed so by a court or that can be passed into law.

Yes, thank you for clearing that up. If it's not biblical, it must be political. It can't possibly be about equality or basic human rights.

As have many conservatives before her, Ms Parker uses one of the most overused and under-proven arguments of all time: (insert issue here) will open the door to "every imaginable possibility." Crikey. Someone call the fun police -- the Blacks want to be free, er the Irish want jobs, er women want the vote, er the homosexuals are about to knock down the walls of depravity. (Everyone knows the porn industry wouldn’t exist if not for the gay dollar.)

Wallace' assertion, with Ms Parker's backing, that once gays have recognized commitments it'll break open the floodgates to all manner of God-awfulness, is a sorry attempt to class-up a still-classless act. It wasn't that long ago when people like this thought it was logical to make the leap from a homosexual relationship between two consenting adults to one person insisting themselves upon an animal and/or a child. When that didn’t work, they moved on to polygamy. But just in case, props to the poor vs rich approach:

Now, admittedly, I come from a different place than Mary Cheney. Sure, there are lesbians in the ghetto. But they generally don't "discover" their sexuality one post-pubescent day and break the news to their doting parents, amidst tears and hugs.

No, probably not. I'll tell you the price of tea in China if you can tell me how a Federal Marriage Amendment will make the lives of lesbians in the ghetto any better. Oh, wait, that wasn't your point. What was your point?

The gay movement is but a new chapter being written by liberal elitists who brokered the displacement of tradition and personal responsibility with disastrous welfare state policies. Blacks paid dearly and still are paying.

Liberal elitists took away tradition and personal responsibility? Powerful force, they are. You’d think with all that strength, they’d get to marry. One thing's for sure: they're not powerful enough to invade every institution of our society because if they were, well, just think of the impact:

Such changes would impact every institution of our society, and Ms Cheney's uninformed casualness about the scope and seriousness of this is frightening. We've already seen the impact in adoption. How about in our public school system, our military, our churches, or our corporations?

Man, Ms Parker, you sure scare easy. As a U.S. Marine wife of more than 20 years, I gotta say, I've not heard of America's gay finest causing more trouble than their heterosexual counterpart. Might be different in the Army. They all seem to have bigger things on their minds -- like living through war. The few gay teachers my children have had through the DoD school system were never quarantined for cooties, nor were any of the gay military chaplains I've met. Maybe some day, Ms Parker, you’ll share the experiences you've had or present the evidence you’ve found to illustrate your point and support your contentions. I do hope you start with the line between homosexuality and welfare because I'm still unclear on that one.

But I digress. It's really all about religious values, something that has never had to be supported by a body of evidence to be considered superior to all other viewpoints. Ms Parker biblically challenges Ms Cheney, apparently forgetting the same was done many years ago in an effort to maintain the tradition of slavery and keeping women in the home.

With little thought, she glosses over the truth that this is not about freedom but about the exchange of one source of authority for our laws and values for another. Will it be the bible or Mary Cheney's youthful passions and impulses?

I'm thinking it's not going to be your bible, Ms Freedom Rings. While you have every right to your beliefs, you have no right whatsoever to force those beliefs onto others -- personally or constitutionally. This white heterosexual agnostic woman (who grew up poor at the same time you did) would rather you stayed the hell out of everyone's marital goings-on before you start using scripture to force every woman on this planet into the missionary position in preparation for her barren sister's husband.

A Humbling Place To Learn

2006-08-28T17:18:00.000+02:00

I couldn't stand out there in the cold, leaning against a building, waiting for people to pull up into the drive-thru so I could hit them up for a dollar. Not without losing some of my mind. My mental faculties wander around just waiting for the coffee to brew in the morning. So what's my dollar? What is it really? Yes, I know you're a drunk, loser, alcoholic, whatever. And in the grand scheme of things, what difference does it make?

I remember being a child, sleeping on the cold, hard surface of the kitchen floor in front of the refrigerator vent. It was warmer there than under the worn blanket laying on the bed that sat next to the cracked window, letting in all of winter's wind.

I was a child and felt what you feel. I was helpless then; now I'm not. What have I done with what I've learned? What have I learned? Pitifully little. How can I turn you down, a grown human child? Yes, you're going to spend it on liquor or cigarettes, so what? So was I, at some point. So my dollar puts you that much closer to your misguided need. What are my misguided needs? I'm the one sitting in this drive-thru waiting for one stupidly overpriced soda while you curl up the collar of your jacket against the wind. How did I get to be the acceptable one and you the shunned? You asked kindly enough.

Why did it hurt to watch you walk up the street? It hurts because I'm not disconnected. Oh, I want to be. I want to think I am. I want to say you and I did not come from the same mould. I want to say we don't share the same fears and idiosyncrasies — you from yours and me from mine. I've deliberately detached and what have I lost in the process? What else do I not feel, see, and hear? What tic of the heart do I now have as a result of cutting myself off from those just like me, only not as warm?

So here guy, here's the dollar. It's all you asked for and I don't know what else to give you. I don't know what else I have to give that you would want. I'll tell the drive thru people I changed my mind. They'll know it had something to do with me giving you the dollar and they'll think less of both of us. It's only fair.

You've moved on to where your next dollar is going to come from and, in the comfort of my car, in the middle of the drive-thru, I write about your affect on me.

What a humbling place to learn.

Surviving Accidents, Illness, and Attack

2006-05-07T00:35:00.000+02:00

Prevention keeps tragedy at bay. Preparation for tragedy gives survival a fighting chance.

Our lives can change in the blink of an eye. We can go years and years feeling comforted in the idea that bad things only happen to bad people or that bad things only happen to other good people. Young and old, many of us are coddled by decades of uneventful goings-on, thinking we walk on the fortunate side of the barrier between safety and danger. Because that barrier is a thin veil of illusion, the most drastic changes come with no pomp and plenty of circumstance. This is a devastating reality to have to face when one is least able to do so. Our wounded servicemembers, those injured on the job, and anyone married to and/or the parent of an injured person knows this. And my fellow writers, Jet in Columbus and Richard Marcus know this. The road to hell is paved with the many things we don't know ahead of time and the lessons we refuse to learn from those all too familiar with the fickle hand of fate.

Wills, living wills, and life insurance abound and can cushion the blow for our loved ones should we not survive an accident, attack, or illness. Few consider the provisions necessary for surviving the same. Those who volunteer in nursing homes, rehab centers, hospitals, veterans hospitals, active-duty healthcare facilities, nursing homes, or with the myriad of help agencies across the country stand in the very doorways an injured person does well to find months after they've been injured. Knowledge of resources and how to work the system is crucial and best sought out while one is able to do so unencumbered.

The odds that we as individuals will traverse this life with nary a need are very good. Add spouses, children, other family, and friends to the mix, and the odds drop through the floor. Everyone knows someone who knows someone who is battling more than their injury; they are battling for the basics: shelter, food, and peace of mind.

Prevention is big business. From baby gates to airbags, from helmets to home security systems, gizmos and gadgets have flooded the marketplace in an effort to protect our loved ones and ourselves from our own world. Self-defense classes can be had with one phone call. Wellness programs and neighborhood watches have cropped up from Seattle to Sarasota. All in the quest to avoid that which could halt us in our tracks and change our lives forever.

Unfortunately, many have stopped short of preparing for preventative failures. Using but a fraction of the time spent engaged in sports, playing video games, cycling in place, and visiting with friends, we all have the opportunity to research the information, resources, and facilities available in our area so that should something happen, we aren't going up against a wall of red tape and time consuming tasks that have little to do with recovery when we are least able to do so. Sharing what we find with others spreads the preparatory love. Becoming a lifeline for others, as has my friend Tonia Sargent, all the better. Tonia is her husband's full-time caregiver, physical therapist, and wife in addition to being a mother of two teenage girls and one of the few knowledgeable advocates for wounded servicemembers and their families.

If you don't already know what available in your area, I urge you to open up your phone book and take a look around. If you have one, get out that health insurance policy and make sure you understand what's what and what happens if you're no longer able to pay on it. If you don't have one, find out what you'd have to do to secure care and assistance. Do you know the disability waivers and provisions of your credit cards, bank accounts, and insurance policies? What can Social Security do for you? Who are the non-profit help agencies in your town and what services do they provide and under what circumstances? The primary considerations are financial stability, physical health, and mental health.

Knowledge is power because it helps to eliminate our fears of the unknown and helps to steady our resolve when going up against the known. We know what could happen and many have taken the steps to prevent it. It greatly increases the odds when we play it safe. Play it even safer. Find out what it would take to re-center your life in the event of an accident, illness, or attack. If not for yourself, then for someone else. The person for whom you do this will be forever grateful -- especially if that someone is the future you.

Hunting Humans

2006-04-03T21:04:00.000+02:00

Family history can be fun with the help of the U. S. Census.

I was an enumerator for the United States Census Bureau in 1990 and 2000. I was one of the many who knocked on doors to get forms filled out that hadn't already been returned. It was the most fascinating job I've ever had. I woke up every morning excited about getting to work. It wasn't easy work some days. Unlike the gated communities I enumerated in 1990, rural areas were my domain in 2000 -- some of them quite remote. Cell phone signals were iffy but mine worked just often enough to get me out of a bind or two. I'd had a few unruly types threaten to shoot me. One guy became irate and was hauled away. He wouldn't answer his door even though I knew he was home. One afternoon I stood there on his porch and called him. For some reason he answered his phone. That's when I asked him to please come to his door and fill out the form. He didn't just come to the door -- he came through it. I hotfooted it back to my truck while calling for help. I thanked the heavens that day for aerobics class, four-wheel drive, and working locks.

Nonetheless, at the end of the season I felt disappointed because it was all over for another ten years. There weren't just those who refused to fill out their forms; there were also those who didn't understand how or why. I enjoyed a goodly amount of lemonade, fresh baked cookies, and town gossip as I tutored along.

At the end of training for the Census, I'd been sworn to keep everything I would learn to myself for 72 years. I understood why, but it really sunk in after I started documenting my family's history through releases of the U. S. Census, the most recent being the 1930 Census. With my mother's passing in 1999, I became the oldest female in her line. At the ripe old age of 37, it fell to me to insure the safety and welfare of all pertinent information, but it wasn't until I was in my 40's that I became the least bit interested in documenting all the information I'd been given. Little did I know how much of it simply could not be documented. It wasn't an issue of existing documents. It was an issue of stories that weren't quite in keeping with what had actually happened.

As excited as I had been on my first day of enumerating, I was completely blown away when I set eyes on my first Census form from the 1930 Census. There it was, in black and white, right there on my monitor: my grandfather Frank Gulick, my grandmother Susan, and my three uncles. My father wouldn't be born for another eight years. I was transported back into time -- specifically 1930. I could almost smell the paper and feel the pen scratches and ink welts of a time in which I’d not lived.

Later I would find people in my family whom I'd never met. I would find others whom I'd heard so much about. And in the true spirit of keeping personal information a secret, but only for 72 years, I found out where my long lost great-aunt Odessa had really gone to when she became pregnant -- and it wasn't with "that boy" as I'd been told. It was with "that man." That man was my great-aunt's father, James Lambert. He was my great grandfather, my mother's grandfather, and my great-grandmother's ex-husband.

I would come to discover, and it was later confirmed, that my great-aunt hadn't been pregnant at all. She just couldn't stand her mother, Effie Mae (nee Felker), anymore, so she left and changed her name. Incorrectly listed (or incorrectly told to the enumerator) as James' stepdaughter, Odessa is James' daughter. My great-grandfather had moved to a different state and took his oldest daughter with him. He remarried and had several more children. My great-grandmother would also remarry -- three times.

Incidentally, my great-grandmother was a horrid woman. I still question the motivation of a man who spirits away his eldest daughter (leaving sons and a younger daughter behind), but if great-grandma was as mean at 25 as she was at 75, I would have bid my farewells, too. The younger daughter, my grandmother, Mildred, who was no kind person herself, once told me her grandmother was "a witch." Try passing genealogy off at an Anger Management Class and see how far it flies. Er, not that I would know.

It has surprised me how often seemingly morally incorrect circumstances play out time and again, not only in my own family tree, but in others’ trees as well. And here I'd been told how upstanding people used to be. Outstanding hide-n-seek on a national scale, that's all that was. I suspect the number of divorces, restless teenagers, and unplanned pregnancies hasn't raised that much over the last century -- it's the knowledge of it. Something that has actually declined is the infant mortality rate and the number of deaths from childbirth. Way back when was not a good time for women and children. It helped if you made it through your teens, and it helped if you were male, but a heart wrenching perusal of the Slave Schedules reveals a bad time for everyone not related to the owner -- and claimed by him. Sure we all know this, but when you see it in official documentation, it takes on a whole new depth and meaning.

My great-great-grandfather, John Jackson Gulick, was a physician who lost three wives to childbirth. The first died birthing her 9th child at age 34. The second died along with her first child at age 28. The third, my great-great-grandmother, Lea, died at age 44 giving birth to her 4th child.

There is little record of stillbirths and miscarriages as the Mortality Schedules were usually reserved for live births, so it isn't known how many pregnancies actually occurred. (I was told of many stillbirths and miscarriages on my mother's side. This, even though all the women lived long lives and had sizeable broods.)

The family tells me that after Lea's death, John gave up medicine and went into farming, and the Census reflects this. He'd decided if he couldn't keep his wives alive, then he should find another way to make a living.

John doesn't appear to have had sex so very often – with his wife anyway, but c'mon. You'd think a physician with two deceased wives would've figured out what was going on and would've stopped it and/or found alternative means to meet the need (and who's to say he didn't). I guess deductive reasoning, even among the educated, was in short supply in those days. I fear to think he had little regard for women in general. No wonder so many mothers cried at weddings -- they were sending their daughters off to die.

As nitty as some of the gritty was, there were also quite a few success stories. A candidate for the DAR (Daughters of the American Revolution), my membership and that of my children will be well-substantiated by all my research and the ancestors of mine who fought in the Revolutionary War. At least as far back as the 1850 U.S. Census and other, much older records in existence show, it's all documented. I'm happy to have gotten as far as I have, but goodness knows, there is much more hunting to do.

As it is, I now know almost every Gulick in the United States (and many others) came from just one couple, Hendrick Van Gulick and Geertruyt Jochem Willekens, who settled in the New World in the mid 1600s. That’s remarkable to me.

If only they knew.

(Note: There is no 1890 Census image for this article. Almost all of the 1890 Census was destroyed in a fire.)

Happy Birthday!

2006-03-29T02:14:00.000+02:00

Happy Birthday to ME and my lovely daughter THERÉSE! (But not the Commandant of the Marine Corps! We don't know when his birthday is.)

See new Ireland pictures below just under the Abbey Sign!

Erin Go Braugh!

2006-03-21T20:22:00.000+01:00

Our stay in Ennis, Ireland over the St. Patrick's Day Holiday was almost as much fun as finding a pot of gold!
These are the pictures from the digital camera. My Pentax pictures came back today. I'll get them online asap.

We had a great time at our hostel.
Thank you Sarah and Massimo, our wonderful hosts,
and all the great staff!

A few of the Pentax pictures:

• One of the best pictures I've ever taken of Therese.

• Amelia, Me, and Abram just across the bridge from our hostel.

• Abram, almost Amelia, and Therese at the bridge.

• Therese took this well! Behind the hostel in the yard.

• Therese and Amelia in the kitchen of the main house. The edge of the Fergus River can be seen outside the window. It's more of a creek or a babbling brook.

• Massimo teaches Therese traditional Irish dance.	• Massimo and Sarah are festive and hardworking!

• Amelia walking from our hostel to the main house.

• Before the silly string...

• And after!

• The town of Ennis in Co. Clare.

• Therese takes formal traditional Irish dance lessons at the Glor Theater. Abram was on the other side of the stage at the time.

• The streets of Ennis are marked this way, every side of every city block. The names differ, and I wasn't able to find out how the blocks come to be named.

• Ennis' St. Patrick's Day Parade! We were told it was the second coldest St. Patrick's Day on record for most parts of Ireland.

• Waiting for the parade to start. Therese, Abram (in kilt), and Amelia.

• The parade begins!

• St. Patrick chases the snakes!

• Wee little tykes abound!

• St. Patrick, presumably when he was much younger.

• More wee folk!

• Hold on, we've an untied shoe.

• And we're off!

• Traditional Irish dress.

• More parade fun.

• The little ones are so cute!

• A map of Co. Clare

• Cliffs of Moher
• Standing at the Cliffs and looking left; Abram, Therese, and Amelia. Workers on site said record high winds were being recorded and that usually there isn't any wind.

• Standing at the Cliffs and looking right; Just me, all bundled up, and yet still so cold.

• If bundling doesn't work, surround yourself with children!

• Please note this photograph was not digitally altered. It is really that blue and green. Just beautiful!

The Great Family Tradition of Storytelling

2006-03-06T03:44:00.000+01:00

My Dad and his wife came to visit. I wasn't surprised to hear him say he wanted to fly half way around the world to see me, my husband, and his grandchildren. I was surprised when he actually showed up. He hadn't traveled but a few hundred miles from home in over twenty years. I thought he was done with road trips and distant vacations. Nonetheless, he told me on the phone that they were ready for a transatlantic flight.

It wasn't entirely unexpected, mind you. It had been planned. There was a flight number and an arrival time, hotel reservations, and a few "when in Rome, do like the Romans" bits of advice through email, but to see him actually show up at the airport, well, it was a shock. I knew there would be some nice moments; day trips to castles and a few museum visits. But to be honest, I’d only met his new wife once before and it wasn't like the whole fam damily was flying over to fill every corner of my home with kids and food and family gossip. It felt awkward, and I wondered if we'd have anything to talk about.

I hadn't anticipated the impact their arrival would have on the troops: my kids. It was two weeks of glory for my children. The goldmine that is my father's storytelling hurled forth the very best jewels and gems from decades and decades of family history, some from before he was born. The children couldn't believe the authority with which he spoke and his knowledge of a time so distant and of people so completely unknown to them. They would later tell me it was like The History Channel and Comedy Central all rolled into one. The same children I couldn't get to be still from the first time I said, "Pick up your toys!" to the last time I said, "Sit up straight, you're in college now!" were right on some unseen cue taking the same positions as I had years ago: elbows on the table, chins in hand, eyes wide so as not to miss a single syllable. And laugh, my goodness did they laugh. And it was fresh laughter, not the knowing guffaws of me and my siblings. Oh, we enjoyed the stories over and over, but our laughter wasn’t new. We laughed because we knew what was coming. My children, however, were bellowing a genuine, singularly united, "I’ve never heard anything like that before in my life, oh, my sides!" kind of laughter. Their giggles and hoots made them seem young again and my Dad younger. They couldn't wait to hear the next story as much as he couldn't wait to tell the next story. It was the same loving, life-giving exchange I’d been privy to throughout my entire childhood, with one exception: my children had not broken bread at a different table than the big people and then scooted in to the dining room in hopes of negotiating a seat in the main hall of this most-anticipated family event. My children had front row tickets.

I was grown, married, and lived far from home by the time a seat had opened up at the big people table. Good story telling will do that to a person, bless them with longevity. In fairness, we little people of yesteryear (at any given time we were two months to 25 years of age) had our own good time in the other room as we feasted on ham and turkey and caught up with cousins from far away. Our fun did also occasionally involve lobbing bits of Aunt Peg's pink stuff across the room to see who could catch it in their mouth -- and who would bonk heads in the process. At Christmas we would bat an ornament between tables until it broke, signaling a call from the other room to “Stop that now!” At Easter we would pick teams (which is to say all my older cousins would decide who was going to get hurt first) for a rousing game of Kill-The-Guy-With-The-Ball. This bi-annual sport ensued for about an hour, give or take the number and severity of head injuries.

Years later I would learn of my Grandmother’s unspoken rule that the best gossip and the really good stories weren't to be shared until we children were outside. Eventually though, we kids would retreat back to the house for dessert and claim the standing-room only spaces between and behind the chairs at the big people table. My Grandfather would call this great family meeting to order, not with a gavel, but with the beginning of what we knew would have us in stitches within minutes. "Well, now your Uncle Wade,” he’d nod to us children, “your Great Uncle Wade, he had been in the Navy and he did like his whiskey.” My parents and my aunts and uncles would grin ear to ear while Grandma fidgeted with the hand towel in her lap. She herself had more than once told the story of how her brother-in-law would come drunkenly calling on them for a place to stay while on shore leave. It was his brother’s home, but Uncle Wade knew who really ruled the roost. He’d knock, open the screen door, and throw his hat into the house. If his hat came back, and sometimes it did, he knew to move on. But this time, Grandpa was telling the story, and Grandma was rolling her eyes. That was the sign we children had waited for; it meant permission had been given. The really good stories were going to get told, and they did, well into the night.

Here now, my Dad and my children are thoroughly enjoying each other. He tells those same stories like a pro, sitting in and speaking for Uncle George, Great Aunt Della, Uncle Bill, Great Uncle Wade, and my Grandparents. And my Dad's wife doesn’t let me down, rolling her eyes and fidgeting with her dinner napkin. It’s gonna get good!

Even if there had been enough of us to warrant more than one table, I would've scooted them all together -- so that no one missed a single syllable.

Scheisse! Sheehan To Visit Wounded at Landstuhl

2006-02-24T15:01:00.000+01:00

No hospitalized person deserves this particular kind of attention, much less a wounded service member.

Cindy Sheehan and supporters have scheduled a protest walk in Germany from Landstuhl Regional Medical Center to the west gate of Ramstein Air Base, as well as a visit to American wounded in March. Where are the Generals now?

No hospitalized person, regardless of how they came to be hospitalized, deserves the kind of attention, directly or indirectly, that Ms. Sheehan and her camp intend to bring. Landstuhl Regional Medical Center is a hospital. It's not a playground or a podium. The patients of Landstuhl are people, not pawns. Political affiliations, opinions, and beliefs are not part of a patient’s health, recovery, and treatment plan. Something as seemingly insignificant as finding a way to get a service member a smoke break is considerably more important than who is or isn't all about the war.

While I'm all about Ms. Sheehan's constitutional rights, the reality is that those rights end where non-military American soil ends and another country's soil and/or an American military installation begins. American military servicemembers' constitutional right to free speech is limited and often non-existent on an American military installation. Ms. Sheehan cannot expect her rights to exceed those of an American service member or supersede the rules of an American installation. She can expect that her regard for the dead and wounded as the hottest commodity of her campaign to be dismissed completely and used as the very reason to deny her entry. Even if she gets on base and into the hospital, her fun will likely end there. Ms. Sheehan and her camp have scheduled a visit with the wards as if the hospital were a zoo and the wounded just animals in cages to be waved at and fed. Unfortunately, Ms. Sheehan is not alone in this regard. Several visitors to Landstuhl have referred to the wounded as little more than a line on their travel itinerary rather than as the people they are who can refuse, and have refused, specific visitors. The needs of the wounded outweigh the needs of anything and everyone that enters the Landstuhl facility.

Protesting the very circumstances under which American servicemembers were wounded cannot reasonably be expected to be interpreted by the wounded, or the vast American military community that exists here, as a showing of "solidarity to the soldiers wounded in the Iraq," as touted by Ms. Sheehan's event flier.

It can only be hoped that no one has told Sheehan and her camp just how far apart the hospital and the gate to Ramstein sit. It's a 20-minute drive on the Autobahn when there's no traffic and the weather is good. Aye, they're walking. If they get the okay from German authorities, it's a 10-12 kilometer walk (about 8 miles) using back roads. Maybe Sheehan and her -ites don’t know that everything in Germany is uphill and upstairs. While that light trek would be no big deal for any service member, it could test the will of even the most ardent protester, assuming no one gets lost, the weather is good, and someone thinks to bring along more than a copy of "Wicked German."

Heart History 101

2006-02-14T10:27:00.000+01:00

What do baseball, Iran, and aphids have to do with Valentine's Day?

The United States Census Bureau, Hallmark Cards, and The History Channel have combined forces to give us an interesting lowdown on the heart-laden hoedown.

• Who's number one?
While women receive about fifty percent of the greetings, husbands are actually the top recipients.
• Single delights:
There are about 120 unattached men in their 20's for every 100 unattached women of comparable age. The gentlemen become a wee bit scarce as the years advance, leaving just 33 roaming bachelors over the age of 65 for every 100 available bachelorettes. Those men who aren’t quite ready to apply for AARP membership might view this attrition as comforting in that you'll only have to buy flowers and candy for so long until it becomes some other guy's problem.
• Kids don't count.
About 192 million Valentine's Day cards make the rounds each year but that doesn't include classroom exchanges. Given that parents buy forty percent of the greeting goods, it's a bet that the youngest set could double or even triple that count.
• Put it off 'til you drop!
Unlike other holidays, over half of all Valentine's Day buying is done within the week before the big day. This has prompted many in the biz to refer to this day as "The Procrastinator's Delight." It doesn't sound like they poll the men much around December 24th, eh ladies?
• Nifty nuptials.
More than twelve thousand people tie the knot every day in the United States. Alas, that still doesn't make marriage more American than baseball.

Flowers blossom as our love for each other blooms. Roses rule the day, but other favored flowers include the carnation and the tulip. While the rose says "I love you" and the carnation says, "I love you divinely," the tulip says "I love you truly." Make that tulip yellow and you've sent the message "I am hopelessly in love with you." Good stuff, eh heartthrobs?

Tulips have a particularly interesting history, especially in light of the Danish cartoon / Muslim outrage controversy. The tulip is no more Danish than are windmills. The tulip's very name is an abused form of the word turban from the Persian language. Persia is also known as Iran. The variety of colors found in tulips was first brought about by none other than the mosaic virus, a viral infection carried by peach aphids. I'm going out on a limb now, so hang on. The tulip is indigenous to the very region where image-less mosaics -- intricate, and colorful designs and symbols set in tile - are the cornerstone of Islamic religious expression. Speaking of origins, can you guess where windmills came from?

Isn't it Iranic. Music in the night, a dream that can be heard.
Snort.

And finally, fans of Hallmark cards might enjoy this Valentine timeline from the 1910's to the present.

There's No Way You're Not Coming Back

2006-02-13T07:55:00.000+01:00

When Valentines Go Astray

In the early days of the Iraq war I was living in Marine Corps base housing in North Carolina. Just about every Marine in the neighborhood was deployed to Iraq. My husband was no exception. Like any other spouse, I had my friends, my peeps, my home girls. We were there for each other come hell or high water. We cared for each other and each other's children as if they were our own. We lived with the quiet denial that one or more of our Marines might not come home safe and sound. We held each other and consoled our children when news starting coming 'round; the guy down the street wasn't coming home, the gal across the street would be at Bethesda for months to come, and the news just wouldn't stop coming. Every few days it was someone from our base, someone from our neighborhood. We stalled fate by pouring ourselves into our work and our children. On the weekends we traded off who would be "the responsible one" while the rest partied away all manner of anxiety.

During this time I'd also been attending one of several support groups offered through the Family Service Center. One particular new Marine wife and young mother was from the Bronx (she was young to me at 21 yrs of age to my 41) and was still having trouble getting used to people in the South meeting her gaze as she made her way through the town stores. She hadn't made any friends even after moving into Junior Enlisted housing, saying there was too much backbiting, gossip, and infidelity. When she found out her husband was to deploy, she immediately made plans to return to New York with her infant son and did so within days of his departure.

She showed up for our regular Tuesday evening meeting not sixty days after having left. Many spouses find out the hard way that family and hometown friends simply don't understand military life, the demands, the camaraderie, and the discipline that filters down from the Command through the service member and to the family. It wasn't the bugle at sunrise she had missed; it was the knowledge that she wasn't the only one missing her man and scared to death that he wouldn't come home to his wife and child. Like so many of us, she needed the company of those experiencing and those who had experienced the same thing, even if most of those were strangers. She learned quickly that military spouses aren't strangers even if we don't know everyone's names. Still she was hesitant to do more than meet up once a week.

My husband's promotion while in Iraq made me a Senior Enlisted spouse and I was excited about this because of the volunteer opportunities available to assist younger spouses. I'd already spent years in classes and other groups getting ready for something just like this. The other Senior spouses participating in this particular group were a class act and outstanding models of human understanding and decency. Two of the spouses worked for the Center and had founded the groups. Their husbands had retired during and after the Gulf War. They held Masters in psychology and had years of experience dating back to the Vietnam era. I'd suspected from the outset that our young Bronx native might need a little extra help and was nodded on when I shared my concern. By now it was May and everyone whose husbands had deployed in January was getting restless. Reunions were still two months away and school was letting out, making it all the more difficult to juggle work and activity schedules with increasing anxieties. We worked diligently with the group and each other to keep spirits maintained as much as possible, but nothing could have prepared me for the day after the our young protege found out her husband had been killed. The two Vietnam-era spouses, one a widow herself who had remarried, worked very closely with her day in and day out, leaving the group to those of us they'd trained. The day after she found out her husband had been killed she received a Valentine's Day card from him. It had been misdirected for months and was postmarked from one end of the envelope to the other. Still in the throes of shock, receiving the card solidified her initial denial of his death. She simply didn't believe it, and she continued to deny it even as Taps played at his memorial service. She held that card for dear life and insisted it meant he wasn't gone. In her mind, rather in her heart, he couldn't have sent it if he was dead. More heartbreaking than the death itself was her inability to process what had happened.

I went home and took the workhorses out of my driveway. I'd used them to block the way so no one could park there; specifically, the guys who bring bad news couldn't park there. In my mind, rather in my heart, if they couldn't park there, they couldn't bring bad news. I looked up and down the block and could see how others had done the same -- with large potted plants, blow-up pools, patio tables, and canopies. None of these were in place before our Marines had deployed. I hadn't noticed until then that I wasn't the only one. We all had our own way of dealing with reality by blocking it out, keeping it at bay, and denying it. Of course the guys with the bad news could park on the street or even in the driveway of a vacant house, but this wasn't part of my carefully crafted illusion and clearly it wasn't part of anyone else's either.

As I stood in my drive, it suddenly hit me that I hadn't received a Valentine's Day card from my husband. Mail ran notoriously behind during all of his deployments. My kids' birthdays are within thirty days of each other and more than once I've created a birthday card that looked like it had been sent from afar for the one child whose card didn't show up in time or at all. But realizing the absence of a Valentine's Day card this time around haunted me until the day it came -- two weeks after my husband arrived home, safe and sound.

There's No Way You're Not Coming Back

Copyright © 2006 by Diana M Hartman

There's no way you're not coming back, you carry us on your shoulders
You love me long, you love us all, there's no way this is over

They rolled up in the driveway, they were sharply dressed in blue
The children hurried outside, they thought it might be you

The children hurried back to me, as the men walked up in blue
And later on they handed me a flag in place of you

I cannot comprehend the words, I don't want to understand
But they kept saying awful things I can't repeat to the children

There's just no way you're not coming back, you told me you'd come home
They weren't there when you held me near, they weren't there when we loved

They weren't there when I held you back, they didn't hear my cries
They weren't there when you said to me, "I'm coming home, you're mine"

There's no way you're not coming back, you called the other day
You said the fighting's over with, you didn't lie, I say

They didn't hear your words to me, they haven't read your letters
They're telling me it's over now, but I know, I know better

The neighbors come with dinner made as if I couldn't bake
They say they understand and hope the kids and I will be okay

Okay from what? I cry to them. I know he's coming home
They don't listen when I say I heard you on the phone

I just sent you a package of your favorite things to eat
I know I'll get a letter telling me I am so sweet

There's no way you're not coming back, I've decided this and so
I will wait however long it takes. They're wrong, this much I know

This is absurd, this hero's welcome for a box, not for my love
There's no way you're not coming back, I know you'll be coming home

My knees are weak, my heart is heavy. The sun beats down my mood
When are you coming home my love? The shots rang out at half past noon

The cars, the bugler, and a box. It's all a blur to me
The sounds, the sights, the smells, the cries. It's all so lost on me

There's no way you're not coming back, the mail came again today
A letter from you says you're good. They all must be mistaken

There's no way you're not coming back, I've cried too many tears
You told me you'd be coming home, we still have many years

But still they've come with papers saying, "Sign the dotted line"
And still I don't believe it. You're coming home, you're mine.

For Cecilia. There but for the grace of God go I.

Six Generals Line Up Against the Washington Post

2006-02-03T00:01:00.000+01:00

Tom Toles’ editorial cartoon of the wounded gets labeled “reprehensible.” Wounded without adequate care, not even mentioned.

As the spouse of a military service member who served in Iraq and having frequently visited our wounded at Landstuhl Regional Medical Center here in Germany, I am profoundly aware of the depth, tone, and gravity of the wounds our servicemembers endure. I am also aware of the often fragmented and disconnected care they receive once stateside.

Tom Toles' Jan. 29 editorial cartoon in the Washington Post depicting a service member with both arms and legs missing has been labeled "beyond tasteless" and "a disservice" by six military Generals. It may be tasteless but the only disservice has come from a nation of citizens that has thus far refused to hold its administration accountable for the single most overlooked reality of this war: not all of our wounded are getting all of the care they need. That Rumsfeld was depicted as the doctor saying, "I'm listing your condition as 'battle hardened'" is a glaring and accurate reflection of his and his administration's lack of regard for the needs of our wounded. Many citizens, under the guise of supporting our President and being patriotic, have unquestionably assumed that same regard.

Wounded Marine Gunnery Sergeant (Master Sergeant Select) Kenneth Sargent and his spouse Tonia have navigated the precarious stateside path of his care since his injury in Iraq in August of 2004 from Landstuhl, Germany to Bethesda, MD to MCB Camp Pendleton, CA. In a few days, they will again travel the 443 miles to Palo Alto for services and care not provided by facilities closer to their home. With 19 years time in service come this April 29th, the Gunny's retirement at 20 years is still not guaranteed, and thus the care and rehabilitation he needs and has earned is in jeopardy. The road he and Tonia have taken since his injury has been marred with obstacles that include but is by no means limited to a lack of communication between services that have created disconnections in care.

The Gunny is not an anomaly. He is part of an unfortunate norm. He is not a cartoon. He is a real person.

Those servicemembers who do make it to retirement are still subject to substantially higher insurance costs, a lowered priority in military medical facilities, and extensive waits for limited VA services. Meanwhile, expenses for travel, daycare, lodging, and transportation as well as the loss of a second income and the sheer expense of "normal" day-to-day living compromises the lives, livelihoods, and financial stability of our wounded and their families. None of this has been called "a disservice" nor has any of it been described as "tasteless," "calloused," or "reprehensible."

It may be easier to target an editorial cartoonist than those who created the reality he illustrates, but it does nothing to abate the reality.

Generals Pace, Giambastiani, Hagee, Schoomaker, Mullen, and Moseley have more than the right to take issue with any disrespectful regard for our wounded. Combined they have over 200 years of military service and battlefield experience. They are not the untouched, un-traveled, and inexperienced Washington-based elected whose knowledge of Kabul, Tikrit, or Landstuhl is limited to pins on a map. The very bravery and sacrifice the Generals' rightly attribute our wounded has this military spouse wondering why their disdain is so misdirected. Was Toles’ cartoon "tasteless," gentlemen? Or did it just leave a bad taste in the mouths of some with whom you work? You know of whom I speak. They could but haven't made sure the funding and programs are in place to provide for the full care and rehabilitation of every wounded service member. They've toured Bethesda on the backs of aides that made sure they didn't see any wound as bad as the one in the cartoon. Many of them haven't been to any other hospitals because those facilities aren't sitting in their backyard.

Sure, some of them have come here to Germany to conduct all manner of business but few of them make it out of the pubs and castles long enough to get to Landstuhl. I've frequently witnessed those who have managed a visit still find a way to avoid facial disfigurations, overwhelmed and distraught patients, and the ICU. The limits of what they can stomach is reflected in the limits of that which they have gone on to write, promote, and provide for in legislation. Touring the field hospitals of Iraq and Afghanistan has not prompted Bush or Rumsfeld to do much more than make sure the war itself has its money. This they can do, but they have yet to make sure the care and rehabilitation of every wounded service member and regard for their time in service has been provided for in full.

Toles' illustration did indeed reflect a villainous disrespect for our wounded. That disrespect was born of and continues to grow from an administration that sent its military into war knowing full well the system of care for its wounded was desperately wanting and has allowed it to remain that way to this day. The administration has seen fit to delegate the task of filling in the gaps to private citizens, non-profit organizations, and the wounded and their families. Reveling in efforts it has not funded and supports only with lip-service, the administration continues to use hyper-patriotic language to cover its neglectful regard for the very citizens it has needed most. There is nothing more "callous" about Toles' depiction save what can be seen in the bathroom mirrors of Rumsfeld and Bush.

Toles' cartoon is going to upset many a citizen, especially the families of those currently at war. I'd be surprised if very many families of those fully employed with securing care for their wounded loved one has had time to open a paper, much less get to the sixth page of the second section. While many papers headline the success stories of hundreds of wounded, thousands more and their unsuccessful stories don't quite make the cut. This has created a slanted and skewed reality for those who go no further than the front page. The stories of those most in need are rarely told and they are only seen behind "disturbing image" warnings around the Internet. This may make it more palatable for legislators and the population at large to sleep at night, but it doesn't do a damn thing to insure the full care and rehabilitation of every wounded service member.

If it takes a tasteless cartoon to shake the populace hard enough and wake them up so they'll see what is real, then so be it. Unfortunately Generals, your disappointment isn’t shared with as many Americans as you might have hoped. If outrage over a real wounded service member hasn't prompted improvement, do you really think outrage over a cartoon image of the same will? The administration that sends our servicemembers into war has had ample opportunity to press for and pass legislation providing for our wounded in full, and it has not.

That is where the disdain need be directed.

The World of Haves and Have-Nots

2006-01-26T16:39:00.000+01:00

If you've got it, then wear it, steal it, spy on it, and scan it.
But don't expect to heat it.

Does she or doesn't he?
School leaders told Kentucky’s Greenwood High School student Olivia Shutman that all girls chosen for homecoming court have to wear a dress. Shutman doesn't like or wear dresses and stated she would rather wear a nice pantsuit. The school responded by barring Shutman from homecoming court. A student protest of the three-year-old dress code is planned on Shutman's behalf.
Meanwhile, a male student can wear a skirt, kilt, or dress to Hasbrouck Heights School in New Jersey now that the American Civil Liberties Union has reached an agreement with school officials. Seventeen-year-old Michael Coviello said the school policy that banned shorts but allowed skirts from October 1st to April 15th was discriminatory. Coviello initially protested by wearing a skirt to classes but was sent home by the principal. He's glad to be able to wear a skirt again in an effort to draw attention to a policy he says makes no sense.
Perhaps a Kentucky-New Jersey student exchange program is in order.

From the “Crime is relative” file:
The Federal Trade Commission once again reports identity theft is the leading consumer complaint. The FTC says last year's 685,000 complaints generated $680 million in losses. Even children are not safe. Over eleven thousand complaints were filed on behalf of those under the age of 18.
Meanwhile, President Bush traveled from Kansas to Maryland this week discussing his warrantless domestic spying program. Bush told reporters, "We’ve seen that part of the terrorist strategy is to place operatives inside of our country. They blend in with the civilian population. They get their orders from overseas and then they emerge to strike from within.”

Maybe Bush could win over more support by replacing "terrorist" with "identity thief."

Up north, Fairbanks, Alaska Yukon-Koyukuk School District's attempts to keep its schools heated are nothing to freeze at. Having started out with $226,460 to spend on heating for the year, the district exceeded the budget by over $60,000 and spent $80,000 set aside for emergency maintenance without making it through the month of December. Yukon-Koyukuk's Superintendent Chris Simon says, "Dire times call for dire measures." Indeed. Measures already taken and proposed include a spending and hiring freeze, cutting in-service days, taking six of the districts nine printers offline, limiting travel, and cutting back on maintenance and supplies. Having already teamed with the Tanana Chiefs Conference's elder meal program two years ago to abate costs, the district isn't looking to cut any more of the school lunch program. Only with the Conference's partnership has the school been able to keep serving three hot school meals a week of the five it used to serve.
Moving south, A pioneering effort to improve child protection and school safety is now under way in New Jersey's Freehold Borough School District. The district now boasts a $369,000 iris recognition security and visitor management system, funded by a grant from the Department of Justice. When picking a child up from school, an adult must provide a driver's license and submit to an eye scan. Once the system has recognized the adult's eye, the school door opens and monitors how many adults enter. Superintendent Phil Meara says, "Biometrics is the wave of the future."

Heat, schmeat.
Looks like the eyes have it.

In Sickness and In Health

2006-01-07T18:31:00.000+01:00

Supermoms can care for the weak and weary even as they are feverish and dizzy, but they probably shouldn’t write.

I was not well over the holidays and quite sick this last week. It's some kind of creeping crud the doctors say my husband may have brought back with him from his military-sponsored hiatus to Senegal, Africa. Whatever it is, it can't be readily cured with anything known to "modern" medicine but I'm willing to bet there's a woman in Conakry who knows just what plant to chew on to make it all better. This illness has cost me its weight in Puffs Plus and other sickness-related sundries. I can't imagine the uncivilized person who still uses Kleenex. So have my three children and husband been sick all this time but not all at the same time. That would've been, the gods of illness and maternal devotion decided eons ago, too convenient. Instead, they were sick one at a time with bits of overlap so that I was off from work for the better part of the past three weeks. And I wrote virtually nothing. This is lucky for anyone who meandered my online way as my perspective of the world over the past few weeks was at best, askew. My fever broke just in time to find out Pat Robertson had served himself up yet another plate of foot. I tried to make an article of it but couldn't seem to get past the idea that everyone on the planet should get together and smote him. Smat him? Smate him? Whatever. It didn't work. I put the article through Microsoft Word's spell and grammar check only to be met with something I'd never seen before: a pop-up of a deranged animated figure of my late Mother (may she rest in peace) asking me what in the world I thought I was doing out of bed and that I'd probably burn in hell for my syntax. So I crawled back under the covers and tried to keep Mom out of my fever-induced nightmares.

The last of my ailing children rose from bed yesterday and has since joined her siblings and her father in what my husband calls "getting out of Mom's hair." This is to say they all decided to leave before having to do for me the many not-so-wondrous things I did for them while they were sick. But I'm not bitter. The pen is mightier than the sword. I've decided instead to tell the world about my loving and caring family who, in my hour of need, ditched me like a little sister in the middle of a neighborhood snowball fight. Better still will be my trip to the Scwabengallerie here in Vaihingen later this afternoon, an excursion that will not include my ungrateful brood but will include a stop at my favorite cafe to see the hot Italian guy whose smile could charm the sun from the sky. He loves my American accent and my dainty eyebrow ring. He makes eyes at me, and a killer cup of cappuccino with just the right amount of foam accompanied by a delightful ginger cookie he and his uncles made from scratch. In his broken English he'll tell me he hasn't seen me in a while. I'll tell him about everyone being sick and how I cared for them even though I was sick myself. He'll take my hand into both of his and kiss it tenderly. He'll stroke my face and he'll say he would never abandon me in my hour of need. Sigh.

What! He does make a great cappuccino. My fever may be coming back. Maybe I'll wait until tomorrow to get out and about.

To sleep, perchance to swoon.

Jerusalem Should Get What It Wants

2005-12-29T19:44:00.000+01:00

You don't have to know everything to give something.

I come from a family of storytellers. Say a word, use a phrase, spout an opinion, or reference an article and at least one person in my family will say "That reminds me of a story." After reading Ruvy in Jerusalem's "I Am A Jerusalemite," I started thinking about all I've read with regard to the beliefs, conflicts, and problems surrounding Jerusalem. I don't fully understand all the issues and concerns. But even without a full understanding, I can appreciate that Jerusalem wants what it wants.

And that reminds me of a story.

My brother, Gary, is a fully trained and licensed master craftsman, a literal jack-of-all-trades. He knows wiring, plumbing, carpentry, masonry, you name it. He could build a house from the ground up and he's not too bad with cars. Greater than all of this is his sense of customer service. Within his means, he has, without fail, given the customer what they wanted. When it simply wasn't within his means to do so, he found someone and some way to make sure the customer was happy. He didn't operate from the standpoint that the customer was always right. Instead, he held that the customer was a person with a need, and that needs don't have a right or wrong about them. This philosophy has worked for him for over 25 years. Superiors have questioned his methods and even his skills a few times over the years but he's always been proven right. He finally enjoys a position where his word is final and his approach with customers is taught by the human resources department where he's currently employed.

As a young man in his 20s, he was the 2nd lead in maintenance for a 300-unit apartment building. A trouble ticket was passed onto him more as a joke than anything else. Even then he prided himself on getting to the bottom of any problem and his co-workers were sure the little old lady who reported the problem would be the challenge that could take him down. The ticket read "Light in refrigerator stays on when the door is closed." He visited the little old lady (who turned out to be a whopping 55 years old) with a new light bulb in tow. He patiently and respectfully listened to her assessment. Without question he changed the light bulb. She called back the next day with the same problem. Gary's co-workers chuckled and snickered with the thought that there was no customer service skill of his that could overcome what was clearly a psychiatric delusion. Gary assured the tenant he'd be right there. Just as respectfully as he'd done before, he again gave the refrigerator a good once over. When he was done he stepped back and asked her what made her think the light stayed on after the door was closed. She said "I keep my jelly jar right there by the light; last week I reached in to pull it out of there and had to use an oven mitt to get a hold of it because it was so hot." Gary checked the refrigerator again and found a problem with the switch that turns the light off when the door closes. That switch would have eventually started a fire. He replaced the switch and graciously accepted the basket of goodies she sent to his office.

You don't have to fully understand what someone needs to make sure they get it, help them get it, or even give it to them if you're in the position to do so. It might even be that you'll never understand the why of it all until you make sure they get it, help them get it, or give it to them. If my brother had used his superior skills to trump what first appeared to be her illusion, her need would never have been addressed, much less met, and he would have at a later date found himself cleaning up the charred remains of the building he once worked in, set aflame by the neglected switch in that refrigerator. He would have come to rue the day he put himself above someone else, paying dearly for not realizing there were other possibilities outside his own reality.

Twenty years later that little old lady's company needed a highly skilled and professional maintenance man. She refused to take applications and instead sent her human resource department out to look for Gary. They found him and she hired him. He's paid well with great benefits. And she died peacefully knowing her company would never burn to the ground over something as ridiculously simple as a switch that had been overlooked by know-it-alls who thought someone else's need was just a little crazy.

And that's why Jerusalem should get what it wants.

Christmas Alight

2005-12-24T12:42:00.000+01:00

Of flames, a furnace, and the warmth of love.

In 1966 there were a good many stuffed toys made that were not safe for children. I don't know when they started making them or when they stopped making them. I only remember the impact this had on my wee life and how one remarkable woman saved that day for me many years later.

My Great Grandmother had come to Wichita from Ottawa to spend Christmas day with us. Like all the women from both sides of our family, she was energetic and chatty no matter her age. She'd come with my Grandfather and his wife, Glenna, from Overland Park. The glorious sight of their car in the drive with all those gifts in the back was second only to the tree come Christmas morning. They had arrived in the dark in the middle of a snow shower. It might have been late at night, or it might have been 6:00 in the evening. For some reason I recall their arrival from the vantage point of the front yard rather than through the front window. I watched as my Grandfather and Father piled presents up and took them into the house. The large colorful bulbs that lined the roof were hazy and wondrous through the veil of snowfall. Our tree could be seen through the window. The tinsel didn't hang as much as hover over and around the lights and ornaments. My Mother's approach to decorating the tree was nothing less than artistic. A painter, and later a sculptor, she crafted the tree from the inside out with balance, color, light, and harmony.

The two-bedroom house my parents had rented from my Grandmother was cozy and warm. Our heat came from a floor furnace located in the center of the house between all the rooms. It was easy enough to avoid even though it was large because it was so hot. It was so hot it was scary. And yet, the bedrooms always held a chill. The cracked windowpanes may have had something to do with that.

The air of Christmas morning was heavy with the smell of bacon and coffee. I stumbled sleepily into the living room with my three brothers, one older and two younger than me. Once the tree was within our sight, we were wide-awake. The presents brought from out of town had been placed under the tree right away, but Mom and Dad always waited until the middle of the night to place theirs. Our patience was rewarded every year with a morning vision so breathtaking I can still see it whenever I close my eyes. Mom gave as much care to how the gifts were arranged as she did the decorating of the tree. The gifts were never stacked or piled. They were their own landscape with depth, shape, and texture whether it was a lean year or a time of abundance. While I fidgeted with anticipation, I was also in no hurry to see the earth of gifts supporting the tree get taken apart. We could always tell what was from Santa because the presents from him were different from all the rest. His came in plain colored paper with no ribbon or bow, just a simple tag with a child's name and signed "Love, Santa." He dutifully left behind crumbs on the cookie plate, a drop or two of milk in the glass, and a note that reminded us of the good things we'd done that year.

After a seemingly endless morning meal, the big people announced it was time to open gifts. This too would require patience as gifts were opened one at a time. My brothers and I were jumpy, clapping at the opening of each gift, not because what someone else received was so great, but because each gift opened put us that much closer to our own. Finally my turn came. Around the room it went, and it was my turn again. And then again. And then one more time. This last package, from Grandpa and Glenna, was as big as I was. I trembled to think what it could be. I was encouraged to peel the paper away slowly but I couldn't hold back. Suddenly, there she was! I was 4 years old and the ever so happy recipient of an Eskimo doll every bit as tall as me. She wore a fuzzy hooded parka, fuzzy mukluks, and a plastic face. A hint of jet-black hair was painted across her forehead. She was beautiful. She was exotic. And she was flammable.

Grandpa took Great-Grandma and Glenna back home early the next day. Other relatives had come for another dinner. During dinner, my brother noticed a fire truck in the neighborhood. Its lights were flashing but there was no siren. It moved down the street slowly. Firemen were going door to door. And then they came to our house. There was mumbling and an offer of coffee. I was told to bring my Eskimo doll to the table. One of the firemen plucked a bit of fur from the hood of my doll's parka. He laid it in an ashtray and put a match to it. The fur became instantly alight and disappeared. I held my doll tightly. There was more mumbling; something about the floor furnace, and then my heart sank. The firemen took my Eskimo doll with them.

My parents didn't tell my Grandfather and Glenna about this until their Christmas visit in 1980. By then we'd moved across town into a bigger house. Grandpa said he wished he'd have known about the firemen and the doll but thought I was too grown for a replacement. Glenna took me aside later and said she wished she could replace it, that she didn't think anyone could be too grown for a doll they'd had for such a short time. During that same conversation she asked me about my interests and I told her how much I liked to write. After Christmas day dinner I retreated upstairs to my bedroom with an armful of wonderful things. Glenna came up later with a bag. It held a package of pens and several notebooks. If this were a chicken soup story, I would talk about Glenna encouraging me to write about that fateful Christmas day. But this is my story. Glenna looked into my eyes, cupped my face in her hands, and said nothing. My heart swelled every bit as much as it had ached so many years ago.

My grandfather's second wife, Glenna was my grandmother's adversary from day one. While the rest of the family tolerated her, I thought "Glenna" was French for "Grandma" until I was almost a teenager. I only then learned Grandpa had left my Grandmother with two small children in 1950. Grandpa and Glenna married just before I was born in 1962. By the time I found out about all this, it was too late for me not to like her. I loved her.

I knew it was a sappy thing to do but I couldn't help myself. After my Grandfather died, and knowing Glenna was getting on in years, I sent her a little Eskimo girl figurine with a card telling her how much she meant to me. She died at home shortly thereafter. I lived far from home when both she and Grandpa had died so I wasn't able to make it back for either funeral. My sister-in-law, who had also held Glenna in high esteem, told me later she couldn't find the figurine. We both agreed this was odd since Glenna kept tedious records and was an avid collector of all things dealing with family. The figurine came in my mailbox a few weeks after her funeral with no return address, no card, and postmarked from Anchorage. My sister-in-law insisted she hadn't sent it. I'll probably never know how I came to get it back, but it wouldn't surprise me to find out Heaven's gates are in Alaska.

Our One-Guy World

2005-12-22T11:03:00.000+01:00

Thank goodness there's more than one kind of guy.

It's hard to tell what constitutes a "bad guy" anymore. You can be the direct or indirect cause of someone's death or life-altering wounds without much ado. You can deny a significant portion of history. You can even legislate yourself right into someone else's life, but your name tag still won't read "Hello, I'm a Bad Guy!"

One guy, Stanley "Tookie" Williams, co-founder of the notorious L.A. gang, the Crips, was put to death. His failed campaign to stay alive consumed a great deal of time and headlines. Celebrities and other famous folk aided his efforts. At his funeral, Williams anti-gang accomplishments were lamented by his celebrity supporters as having made amends for the untold numbers of children whose lives he helped to destroy. Meanwhile, a child is being lured into the very gang Williams helped create.

One guy, Dick Cheney, vice-president of the United States, made a surprise visit to Iraq. Eight heavily armed Black Hawk helicopters transported Cheney around the Baghdad area, over the courthouse where Saddam Hussein's trial is being held, and along the road to the airport where insurgents have attacked many times. Papers and websites across the United States headlined his visit. Meanwhile, America's wounded streamed out of the same country on the same day with no visit from the vice-president and no headlines of their own.

One guy, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad president of Iran, said the Holocaust is a myth. Meanwhile, in Stuttgart, Germany, 34 Holocaust victims whose remains were recently unearthed during construction near the airport are laid to rest. Rabbi Israel Meir Lau, the chief rabbi of Israel, referencing the coffins as they were lowered into the ground said, "They bear witness to all humanity. They deny the deniers." While Iran's president enjoyed global headlines, the victims and Lau's comments, did not.

One guy, George Bush, president of the United States, has been spying on US citizens without a warrant in an effort to win the war on terror. Meanwhile, 30,000 transit workers, from the same city that suffered with that which President Bush cites as the reason for the war, felt the conditions of their employment were bad enough to warrant going on strike the week before Christmas. They are being fined and lambasted for their effort to improve those conditions. Their strike has been called illegal, but the president may legally spy on each and every one of them.

Thank goodness there's more than one kind of guy.

One guy, Master Sergeant Robert J Hartman of the United States' Marine Corps Forces Europe, Master Sergeant Hartman served in Iraq at the beginning of the war.

One guy, Pennsylvania's U.S. District Judge John E. Jones III, ruled that the Dover Area School Board acted unconstitutionally when they ordered its biology curriculum to include information about Intelligent Design, a controversial and religiously based idea thought by some to be an alternative to Charles Darwin's theory of evolution.

Several guys, all former gang members, have been actively and steadily working with children and adults in their communities to create programs with activities that serve as viable alternatives to gang membership. Among those who have turned their lives around without benefit of celebrity support are Arnulfo Nava of Chicago, IL , Joseph Rodriguez of Victorville, CA, and Derek Glover of San Diego, CA.

Finally, over 300 guys and ladies from around the world came to Stuttgart, Germany December 15th to attend the ceremony that laid to rest recently discovered remains of our world's darkest period of inhumanity. Not in attendance was one Iranian President.

While we narrow our definition of what constitutes bad, it's still not so hard to tell the bad guys from the good guys. The bad guys make it obvious how bad they are with their attempts to look good. Good guys don't try, they just do.

The Commandant Came To Visit

2005-12-20T05:55:00.000+01:00

Headquarters, Marine Forces Europe here in Stuttgart, Germany had the honor of a most distinguished visit during their annual Christmas party, the Commandant of the Marine Corps, General Michael Hagee and his wife, Mrs Silke Hagee.

My oldest daughter and I had the privelege of getting a picture with them. It was very exciting!

Schrapnel In My Stocking

2005-12-12T14:39:00.000+01:00

The “War on Christmas” may come to be known as the most prolific and unsubstantiated urban legend of all time.

It's a bit of a stretch to attempt a connection between celebrating Christmas and being American, but some of our fellow Americans see Christmas ribbon as the tie that binds and that there is an enemy trying to shred it. The president and his wife didn't include the word "Christmas" in their holiday greeting. While there are those who don't like that, it's a greeting from one family to others so it's really no one's business what that greeting says or doesn't say. Using only our Christian commander-in-chief's example, it's okay to exchange the word "Christmas" in favor of a broader term. Acknowledging there are those who don't celebrate Christmas but are good enough for presidential mail, our president sends the message that you don't have to celebrate Christmas to be American. There are a good many that, upon hearing "Happy Holidays" and "Seasons Greetings," responded with "Them's fightin' words." And thus, the real culprit who declared the war on Christmas is revealed.

While I’m opposed to those who would seek to eliminate any reference to any holiday, I’ve not run into but a few of these fanatics over the years. What I have seen and am running into with more frequency are those who all about Christmas to the exclusion of everything and everyone else. I'm not hot on the idea that this time of year should only revolve around Christmas because there are other holidays being celebrated by a good many others. What does it matter that they’re in the minority? Breast cancer isn’t the nation’s number one killer either. Does that mean we should devote all research to the number one cause of death at the expense of all those who happen to die from something else?

It could be said that a few choice media stories covering a teeny tiny minority got this all started, but it would be more accurate to say that those who took offense to these stories gave this "war" its fuel and fury, and it’s title. I've not personally run into anyone that was offended by "Christmas" in any way, shape or form. The only thing I’ve run into are those who are offended with the term "holiday" being used in place of the term "Christmas" in the retail world. The term "holiday" isn't new. It being used more often and in place of "Christmas" seems to be upsetting a few people. Interestingly, It doesn’t seem to upset any of these same people that "holiday" is also being used in place of "Hanukkah" and "Yule" or that "Hanukkah" and "Yule" were rarely used in the first place.

It wouldn’t surprise me to learn in the coming months that those who believe in the “War on Christmas” are just as insignificant and fanatical a slice of our population as those spouting anti-Christmas sentiment. What is significant is the number of people who have willingly and unquestionably hopped on to either of these bandwagons. C’mon people, those wagons didn’t have a lot of seats to begin with. You’re really just traffic hazards now.

So someone is calling it a "holiday" tree instead of a "Christmas" tree. That doesn’t detract from Christmas nor does it keep anyone from referring to their tree in whatever way they want to. The Christian fervor in all of this is most curious. It’s not like there were any "Christmas" trees in Bethlehem, or
"Christmas" lights and "Christmas" cards for that matter. The first Christmas didn't take place in the winter or even in a place where there was winter. Christmas is the celebration of the birth of Christ. Any recognition that goes beyond a nativity and a humble exchange of gifts is superfluous, dare I say commercial. Trees, wreathes, just the right gift (incense for a baby?), lights, the idea that Santa is watching and will bring things accordingly, decor, sleigh rides, and all that food has nothing to do with Christmas. By definition, there is no such thing as a "Christmas" tree.

What's wrong with the commercialism of Christmas is not the commericalism itself but rather what the consumer has done with it. The consumer is to blame, or credit, for the commercialism in the first place. Sure it's very anti-Christmas to trample people in the quest for a low-priced gaming system and it's certainly not in the spirit of the season to have the stress of drunken in-laws taking up space in one's home. The flip side of all that merchandizing is the availability of the things we want, things that accomodate our spirit but that we don't have time or energy to create ourselves like chopping down a tree in the woods, blowing our own glass ornaments, and handcrafting our own nativity set.

I think Christ would be thrilled to know (and I’m sure he does know) his birthday has come to have global meaning even if it doesn't include every single person on the globe. It’s a testament to his message that we've taken his birth and surrounded it with things like Toys for Tots, community caroling, and volunteering at shelters, nursing homes, and veterans hospitals. While these things have nothing to do with Christmas, we’ve allowed these things to evolve into our association with it. We all have control over our choices, from staying home the day after thanksgiving to creating a one-present-per-person tradition to focusing our money and energy on those less fortunate. It is our choices that define our spirit, not how we or anyone else labels that spirit. No one's going to take my Christmas away and no one has threatened to do so. "Happy Holidays" is a greeting, not a gun. A wee bit o' Christ’s message, peace on earth and good will toward others, would do well in place of anyone's angst over terms.

Those who cry out for the use of "Christmas" can and do still say it, so where's the threat? For the over two-hundred years that many Americans have been saying "Christmas", those who celebrate Christmas didn't give a second thought to those who instead celebrate Hanukkah or the Yule. Those who celebrate Hanukkah or the Yule haven't spent over two-hundred years expressing discontent with hearing "Merry Christmas" even though that's not what they've been celebrating for more than two-thousand years. So who is the enemy, really?

That the commercial industry has taken to the use of the term "holiday" rather than "Christmas" is all business. They do what makes money. If "Christmas" made more money, they'd do that - and they did when it made the most money. But graphs and charts and cold hard cash speak volumes, and those things say "holiday" is the way to go. Again, that's business, not people. We the people are still doing what we want to do unhampered and unstopped.

I don't recall anyone getting too upset when the word "turkey" replaced the word "Thanksgiving" on many a greeting card and merchandising display. If, on paper, you take the thanks and giving out of Thanksgiving, you can still be thankful and giving. No amount of turkey-laden tablecloths and foldout centerpieces is going to stop the reason we take that day off.

It didn't seem to bother too many people for the longest time that an other-than-Caucasian person couldn't find a greeting card depicting an other-than-Caucasian person prancing through the snow or topping the tree with a star. That other-than-Christian folk had a hard time, for a long time, finding greeting cards and decor for their holiday traditions didn't seem to create much fervor either.

So is it "Christmas" that’s in danger, or something way more precious – exclusivity perhaps? The majority of the offense taken and the source of all this discontent doesn't rest with those who prefer "holiday" to "Christmas". It rests with those whose Christmas, whose American Christmas, whose Caucasian American Christmas no longer enjoys the exclusive domain of the retail world and the world at large. Christmas is not an American holiday and Christ wasn't Caucasian. Tying Christmas in with patriotism is nothing short of blasphemous. Kudos to the retail world for finally acknowledging that there is more than one race celebrating more than one holiday, or rather the amount of money to be made by acknowledging this.

Even without the support of the retail world and laws on the books, Christmas is safe, and so is Hanukkah and Yule celebrations. Dr. Suess’ Grinch said it best when he said, "It came without ribbons! It came without tags! It came without packages, boxes or bags!” The spirit of our holidays was never at risk and it never will be. Two-thousand (or six-thousand or ten-thousand) years of celebrations isn’t negated just because it’s suddenly realized by some that others don't share in their particular tradition or that there are others who celebrate something else. And it certainly doesn't go away with nothing more than a shift in vernacular.

The Plight of Stanley "Tookie" Williams

2005-12-11T06:59:00.000+01:00

To Be or Not to Be

It would be better if Stanley "Tookie" Williams, co-founder of the Crips, were not put to death for the murders he was convicted of because martyrdom is no place for someone who has done the things he's done. It's just as easy to let him sit there and continue to make attempts at making up for his crimes, and let him stew in the inevitable madness. The problem with not putting him to death would be the remote possibility of his release. Even then, the very network of terror he helped to create, a terror he hasn't formally taken responsibility for since his lockup in 1978, would no doubt be waiting for him in the shadows. Perhaps he could use one of his books as a shield.

The most appropriate course of action would be to allow the victims' families to decide his fate between a lifetime in jail or death. Release should not be an option at all. That Stanley has done any good of any kind simply does not make up for his crimes. The families of his victims, specifically the families of those kids he pulled into his den of inequity and who subsequently died (or were injured or just never went on to accomplish anything at all), are the ones whose opinions matter most. These families are the better judge of whether this man deserves clemency or not. If they don't think he should be relieved, then he should not be relieved. They deserve no less respect than our judicial system has afforded Stanley.

Jamie Foxx' assertion that race had anything to do with determining Stanley's fate is negated by the number of non-black murderers on death row who, despite their changes in heart, went on to die.

It is curious that anyone, much less Archbishop Desmond Tutu, would appear to think one mans' life is worth more than another's. The archbishop has not gone to the mat for every death row inmate who has experienced a change of heart and accomplished some good thereafter. What is so special about Stanley? He is not the only person on death row or in the prison system to make such a change and accomplish things counter to his crime.

Apparently it's easier for the well known to provide acoustics on death row than on skid row where there are no armed guards at every turn.

Snoop Dogg, having said, "his voice needs to be heard", has apparently forgotten the number of young men who heard Stanley's call to terror many years ago. His voice had already been heard; that would be the problem there, Snoop. It is especially troubling that Snoop Dogg would take up this fight. He is a former gang member by choice, unlike Stanley's status as a former gang member having come by default. Stanley is a traitor to those like Snoop Dogg who made the conscious decision to abandon a dangerous path in favor of a healthier life. With the only motive being the betterment of his own life, Snoop's internally based decision to leave the street life contrasts Stanley's externally based choices whose motives could easily be attributed to sheer boredom and a last ditch effort to stay alive. As such, one must question the sincerity and longevity of those motives especially if he were to be released.

Stanley has said he isn't impressed with his prominent supporters. This is akin to the rich man's claim that money means nothing when in fact he would not have been a quotable person without it. Give us a break Stanley. Not all of us are impressionable street youth with no future prospects and on the lookout for a father figure no matter how dysfunctional.

The isolating of Stanley's work as if he were the only one who could or the only one who has done the kind of work he's doing is the most tired argument for his release. His accomplishments hardly stand alone.There are a good many former gang members who, without landing themselves on death row, denounced their previous alliances and went on to do great things for themselves and with respect to the children in their communities. Where are their celebrity props?

Anything Stanley has or would accomplish is muted by what he's done -- even if you set the murders aside. Founding a terrorist organization is criminal. It's not good enough for a man to potentially save some kids from the streets when he has already and decidedly doomed so many. If he wants to work to change the conditions under which one is assigned to death row then he has precious little time to get on with it. In the meantime, the conditions of becoming a resident on death row don't come with an asterisk that would evict those with a change of heart.

The High Stakes of Driving High

2005-12-04T04:10:00.000+01:00

When did marijuana become the new alcohol?

Bernard Laumon of the French National Institute for Transport and Safety Research reports that individuals driving under the influence of cannabis face a greater risk of being involved in a fatal crash, with the likelihood of being responsible for the accident increasing with the dose of cannabis inhaled.

This is rocket science, this is. Where's that Nobel Prize, anybody?

Did we really need another study about the effects of substance use on one's ability to drive, crash, and kill? If you've studied one substance's effect, you've studied them all. What sets this study apart from the others is that this one studied the effects of marijuana on drivers, not so much the driven. Marijuana. This is not a drug I would think anyone would do and then desire a walk further than the refrigerator, much less fancy a drive at speeds capable of killing. My own weedy days long gone, I can still (somewhat hazily) recall the things I did and felt. I don't recall ever getting an overwhelming desire to drive, assuming I'd have ever found my keys. I didn't smoke marijuana like I smoked cigarettes. It was never a do-n-drive or drive-n-go prospect. A little something at the end of the day was a way to relax, not a way to get going and certainly not a way to keep going. What kind of weed aficionados are these that ride off into the sunset -- and into other cars? Is McDonald's really that far away that they would have achieved the speed necessary to do more than go bump in the night? Improper prior planning, dude. If you're going to spend that kind of money on something you could go to jail for if caught, at least use it properly for cryin' out loud. Things must've changed in the last few years. I would've guessed this type of driver would've fallen asleep at the wheel before ever leaving the driveway. What kind of pot is this that keeps a person awake? Check your stash. It's supposed to be green, not white -- or a liquid.

"Drivers found at fault, and also not at fault, who were both under the influence of cannabis were also both at an increased risk for being in a fatal crash. Why drivers not at fault would also be at an elevated risk as well is unclear. The increased fatality risk of drivers not at fault under the influence of cannabis or alcohol is a phenomenon that deserves further investigation."

Oh Bernard, are you kidding? Investigate away, but surely you already know what you're looking for, yes? At least try a doobie before writing these excruciatingly sober interpretations of the data. A high/drunk passenger whose driver wrecks is probably being driven by someone under the influence of something; at least that's what your statistics say and this could easily be substantiated by a few choice interviews (assuming you can sit still through 20-minute fits of laughter and/or vomiting). The two people in question, having been so well suited for judging each other's sobriety, decided upon one person to be the driver vs the other person driving vs staying the hell home.

"The research team analyzed data on 6,766 drivers who had been found at fault for the crash. The crashes involved immediate deaths, including pedestrian fatalities that occurred from October 2001 to September 2003."

The finding of "immediate death" can easily be attributed to the "oh, to hell with it" attitude many a marijuana smoker gets with use. Drunks more likely pass out from the insta-swim of collision. I'm still surprised the high guys even left the house so it's easy enough to conclude that, in a potentially fatal accident, a pot user would get a little sleepy. They probably don't die right away as much as give up on what they don't recognize as the will to live in favor of a quick nap. They just don't wake up. No doubt it's a very interesting experience for the dead guy who wakes up on the other side of his existence.

Once an under-the-influence driver loses control of his/her car, all bets are off. A drunk/high driver is, for all intent and purposes, driving a drunk/high car. Imagine a 2,000 pound linebacker running your way, tripping, and falling on you while you're walking down the street. It's not going to be pretty. If you're also drunk/high it's a good bet you stood there and watched him come at you, amazed. Both marijuana and alcohol slow down reaction times, thus a not-at-fault-but-under-the-influence driver will not have the wherewithal to make the same attempt at getting the hell out of the way as a sober driver. It's a sure thing those under the influence don't wear their seatbelts as often as sober people and may even be at risk of their body not reacting as it would if it were sober. What happens to a drunk/high person who doesn't go into shock when a sober person with the same injuries would?

More important than pinpointing the damage caused by drivers who use is figuring out why users use in the first place and curing that ill. There's your investigation, Bernard. That would be a Nobel Prize in the bag.

In Defense of Love

2005-12-02T10:11:00.000+01:00

Infatuation has been studied and mislabeled.

Those in the throes of newfound passion might misinterpret the strength of their feelings as evidence of their potential longevity. Those in the trenches might tell a different story wherein longevity is only possible with a combination of setting some feelings aside and doing what it takes to keep some feelings alive.

The University of Pavia found a brain chemical was likely to be responsible for the first flush of love. Researchers said raised levels of a protein was linked to feelings of euphoria and dependence experienced at the start of a relationship. But after studying people in long and short relationships and single people, they found the levels receded in time.

My paternal grandparents were married for seventy-seven years. It all started at a barn dance. My grandmother was joining the party as my grandfather was leaving. When they met at the door, my grandmother flashed him an impish grin and he responded by tipping his hat and from beneath his own grin uttered "Evening, Ms Rankin."

That was infatuation.

Many years later at their 50th wedding anniversary, my grandmother and her three sisters sat side-by-side giggling and telling stories while my grandfather looked on with a big grin from across the room. He turned to me and said, "I picked the best one."

That was love.

It's no secret among the happily married that what got them together is not what keeps them together. The 3-C's (conflict, cash, and children) have taken down many a relationship put to paper during infatuation's reign. It's been asserted in more than one self-help book that if you say what you hate most about your spouse, you've just said why you married him/her. He doesn't have anything to say when you talk? You used to say he was a good listener. She's controlling? You used to admire her high standards. The happily married learned to adjust their expectations as the tide of unchecked happiness ebbed and made room for what they now have: love. Without the competition of laundry, in-laws, and labor pains, love is easy. Amid the mayhem of differing financial expectations, parenting styles, and schedules, love is damned hard.

Armed with the findings of this study, one might conclude that couples shouldn't marry within eighteen months of their first date. And one would be right, or at least less wrong than those currently camped out on cloud nine where their loved one's habit of turning the covers down a particular way is cute and leaving the toothpaste uncapped is a mere inconvenience. There is no room for trust and respect in the brains of people who don't know where they end and the other person begins. Blind delight and unconditional acceptance tend to mask over his seemingly harmless flirtations and her procrastinations.

While those awash in a chemical bath of bliss think love is all that matters, the rest of us know love is what makes everything else matter. It's great getting lost in someone's eyes but not so great getting lost in the feminine hygiene aisle at midnight looking for her brand or stumbling around the hardware store trying to find the tool he dreamed of and drooled over in the Sunday inserts, having mumbled something about it making him a better man. In many ways, though, it's better because this latter form of love, respecting preferences and doing for someone else when it's not necessarily the easiest thing to do, is like water and sun for every living thing. While she may not care for the darker roasts and likes to sleep until the children wake up, she buys Columbian coffee and has it ready for him two hours before she has to start her day because last night he brought home a babysitter and a picnic basket full of her favorites.

The more challenged couples deal with special needs children, poverty, extended separations because of employment, and paralyzing accidents. And still they love, laugh, and live. Combining lives and maintaining that combination requires more than just being good at puzzles, it requires flexibility, patience, tolerance, trust, and respect every time the puzzle picture changes. Infatuation is effortless. Love is the effort.

Having studied what gets us together, perhaps science will next tackle what keeps us together.

Only In America

2005-11-29T09:17:00.000+01:00

Cindy Sheehan is once again alone in her grief.

Cindy Sheehan had very little company at her book signing. There were a sparse few from the anti-war camp and no one in support of the war showed up to protest. This illustrates just how merciless, manipulative, backhanded, and outrageous many Americans really are regardless of anything else they do or say. It wasn't enough that anti-war protesters carried her along like a horrified and pregnant teen under the guise of support only to drop her off at the first signs of labor. Now that she's delivered in the form of a book that, among other things, chronicles the loss of the son she did bear, war supporters are rearing their ugly heads with a resounding "I told you so" from afar to include pictures, judgement, and spite. While searing the anti-war movement for using Ms Sheehan to promote their agenda (something they most decidedly did, until they got tired I guess), war supporters are now deliberately standing on top of Ms Sheehan's failure and once again leaning on the loss of her son to prop up the ridiculous and ongoing rhetoric about freeing the Iraqi people.

It might help if war supporters would remember that not everyone fighting this war is a conservative, votes Republican, is a registered voter, and thinks this whole thing was/is a good idea. This is to say that a significant number of people are just doing their job. Everyone fighting this war is a military service member. That's it. Nothing more. Nothing less. Their political and/or religious affiliations, belief or lack of belief in the war, and for whom/if they voted has nothing to do with the war. They haven't asked to be nor should they be subjected to being placed under an umbrella of patriotism or treason as defined by those who do nothing more than pay the taxes that provide their incomes, if that. Patriotism has nothing to do with what anyone on either side of this issue is talking about on any given day. It simply means not bailing on your country when it calls on you. That's it. No more, no less. For the record, nowhere in the government’s definition of the word “treason” will you find the word “disagree.”

It might help if anti-war protesters would remember all that and more. You failed to stop this war from getting started and you have failed miserably in the effort to end this war on any level for any reason. You have wasted your money, time and energy, having not spent it to get Ms Sheehan the help she needs or having spent it to comfort and support those for whom you claim to rally home.

All that support of the war to combat Ms Sheehan, all that anti-war protesting, and not one minute of all that time did any service member or grieving family member a damned bit of good. You've got a child in the war? You have even less excuse for saying anything derogatory about Ms Sheehan. It doesn't matter whether you agree with her or not. Her child died and your child is fighting for the same thing. She’s defined it all very differently than many military moms and has called for the return of your child before he/she is killed. This is her right, the same constitutional right you use to lambaste her. Sure we’ll take away her right, and yours will go right along with it. Is Ms Sheehan misguided? Maybe. But I’ve yet to hear her speak ill of even one other military mother of a living or dead service member. The very idea of ending up in the same shoes Ms Sheehan wore the day she found out her son was killed must sound very appealing to you. Why the hell else would you be so defensive of a grieving, hurting mother whose only agenda is to stop others from suffering her plight? If you do end up in her shoes, carrying a flag around might be all good and well -- today. What about tomorrow? Ms Sheehan went to sleep in a country that appreciated her sacrifice and with the knowledge that her child was still alive. She woke up the next day to the news that her child was no longer alive and in a country that yanked that appreciation back so fast it’s a wonder she doesn’t have rope burn. To shame her is to shame yourself. Both of you share a love for your children. Both of you know the empathy, knowledge, and familial desire for the safe return shared by all military families. You differ, today, in that her child has died. Is this what makes her “they?” Does it really help distance yourself from the possibility of losing your own child to belittle someone else having lost theirs?

Ms Sheehan was no less public the day President Bush offered her his condolences. For all the trash talking about her being in the limelight, it's worth noting that not one of you was by her side that day. Was the limelight just not bright enough for you anti-war protesters? How about you war supporters? She’s as alone now as she was then. Fickle bastards.

Every one of you catapulted your rights of free speech and assembly to depths of hell previously unknown to the most evil people this earth has ever seen. Not one of the mass murdering screwballs in history ever picked one person out of the crowd to publicly humiliate them using their name, address, family, and the nature of their loss. None of those screwballs set the weight of their entire agenda on the shoulders of one person and then denounced them with their absence. They at least maintained the anonymity of their victims. Their excuse? They didn’t care.

The adulterating manner with which you’ve used your rights and freedoms is appalling. The hypocrisy with which all of you have spoken about Ms Sheehan should weigh your heads down with shame but it is a profound lack of conscience that allows your head to float weightless on shoulders that neither carry or have ever offered to carry your fellow human being, much less your fellow American.

It isn’t an issue of what Ms Sheehan is doing or even why. Her son died in America’s name doing American work and in her grief has taken a stand. At what point exactly did she fall off the edge of America and end up in a country that would so energetically condemn her for speaking her heart and abandon her with what can only be described as a fear of commitment?

She didn’t hurt anyone. She didn’t sell drugs to teenagers. She didn’t kidnap, rape, and kill a child. She hasn’t robbed, burned, and pillaged. She’s made no attempt to overthrow the government. All she did was disagree. In so doing she sent one side running scared for their pens and poster board while the other side camped beside her until their KOA permits ran out.

Lame.

haben Sie einen guten Tag meine Mitamerikaner.