tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-349618422024-03-12T16:07:08.692-07:00Walluski BabbleThoughts, ebbing and flowing, seem to oscillate on the tide. Much like the Walluski, they appear to be lazy and slow moving. However, the current runs deep, over the bathymetric terrain, and is sometimes deceptively swift. There are other times, though, when it can softly babble.CBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608603962532054186noreply@blogger.comBlogger171125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34961842.post-35867408266158403732015-04-06T13:51:00.000-07:002015-04-06T13:51:21.280-07:00Global Flash Mob Wedding<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Every once in awhile things come together for a beautiful moment in time. People from around the world came together to make this moment happen at our son's wedding, recently. I am at a loss for words. I wept so much all my makeup was washed away! <br /><br />My heart has been aching and I have been operating in panic mode since Thanksgiving. It started with hubby's mom going in for surgery for a malfunctioning aortic valve. She did not recover as expected from the surgery and quickly went downhill. I was with her the night before surgery, staying over at a motel in Portland since the surgery was set for so early the following morning. That evening was possibly the last time Bart's mom was "fully" cognizant of her surroundings and what was happening. <br /><br />Shortly after mom-in-law's episode my mother was rushed to the hospital in Ewa Beach. She was there for two months after first being diagnosed with pneumonia, which then became MRSA coupled with her COPD and her chemo wracked body, all of this brought on by a bout of VOG, volcanic smog blown over from the big island. Miraculously, she pulled through, but not before my father also went into the hospital for two weeks due to panic over my mother's condition bringing on his own bout with pneumonia and leading to a sever episode of vascular/emotional dementia. Bart's mother died in January, never able to go home since leaving it just before Thanksgiving. Both of my parents recovered, but my father still has not fully regained his cognitive abilities and often wakes up thinking he needs to get dressed and go to work. My mother's lungs remain severely weakened leaving her unable to travel, especially not able to board a plane to fly home. <br /><br />During all of this emotional upheaval we received word from the reverse mortgage loan corporation that we do not get a year to sell the home but, since my father was ill and no longer able to live in the home but not dead, they could call the loan in whenever they pleased and they pleased immediately. We consulted with lawyers and found out that while they were barely within their legal rights, barely is all it took. We now had four months to either buy or sell the property. We put it for sale immediately but it is a long shot that it will sell before the Bank of America's auction date of April 28th. Personally, my husband and I have sunk just under $200,000 into this land that has been in my family since the 1860's. Packing has been almost impossible for me to do, my heart just refuses to believe we have lost this land and my mind cannot wrap around going through close to 100 years of accumulated things in such a short amount of time.<br /><br />Then, we received news that our son is to be deployed. For me, this has been the hardest to mentally and emotionally accept. He joined the national guard to help, locally, in natural disasters. To defend, should we be attacked. This gentle soul that literally cannot kill a bug without cringing ... I worry what will be coming home. I worry if he will come home. I worry. <br /><br />
We were long overdue for some good news. Finally, son announces he and fiance are going to marry! Since I cannot say too much more without it being deemed gossip, let us just say the family is very, very happy with this decision and the knowledge our grandson is in a safe and secure family unit. <br /><br />So, a wedding to plan within a month! Son's fiance had BIG plans. We cringed as we don't "do" big weddings. Four daughters and our budgets have always been under $5,000. She is from Ethiopia, where the wedding garments generally start at that price. We had to meet her father, who has decided viewpoints. How to merge our families together? Ack, ack, ack, more worries. Wedding day comes and up to the point that music started for the walk down the aisle, decorations were going up. Her dress burst open in the back and was literally pinned together with safety pins and bows. <br /><br />And ... it was such a beautiful wedding we wept. <br /><br />Bahai weddings are really quite different. We marry one another, no one "marries" us. No one asks who gives away the bride, no one pronounces us wed. But, how to convey that to people from another religion on top of another culture. The bride's father didn't think it could be done and had prepared what he wanted read at the wedding. It was politely accepted for consideration but was not used. With trepidation I talked with him later that wedding day. He was overjoyed with the ceremony and said nothing he had prepared could have added anything to it. I was greatly relieved. <br /><br />I knew we really couldn't meet the bride's expectation for decorations, but I had two things in our wedding chest. Our family puts out a mean meal at the drop of a hat. Give us a week and it is going to be a humdinger, give us two weeks and we can wow anyone. Our family chef, Bart's brother Kelvin, and party planning big sis (who has been battling cancer herself) put out a such a spread that people were speechless when they found out it wasn't catered. Prime rib, salmon and lamb, salads, rice pilaf, veggies, with friends also bringing Ethiopian dishes and Indian dishes. It was fabulous. <br /><br />And then, and then, and then ... this video. We will have the split screen done a little better, my mom threw this together as a little token of her love. She wasn't allowed to fly home for the ceremony (another heartbreaking moment). We planned a surprise flash mob for the reception. We not only planned it but pulled it OFF!!! We see on You Tube where the wedding party surprises guests with a flash mob, but have not seen the guests surprise the bride and groom with one. To top it off, we asked family and friends who couldn't make it to the ceremony to video themselves dancing to "Happy" as well as a congratulations on the wedding video. Videos came in from around the world! From Japan to Addis Ababa, from Alaska to Oklahoma, Washington, Minnesota, Oregon and many points in between. The response of people stepping outside of their comfort zone was unbelievable. I weep as I write this, out of gratitude. You guys are just the best. And with this dance, two families and so many cultures, came together. <br /><br />It was FABULOUS, and everyone was crying, again! In our family, if we can bring you to laughter or tears, its a WIN! <br /><br />If you want to watch all the congratulations first, watch the whole video, if you want to skip to just the dance fast forward to 11:04. <br /><br />I write this today as I procrastinate more packing. I watch the video today to remember the happy as I weep with the sadness of saying goodbye to the land where my people have walked for seven generations, where my grandchildren will no longer play alongside the memories of their grands, great grands, great great grands and even great great great grands. With sadness I pack up the old, with hope in my heart I look forward (if not with radiant acquiescence at least with determination) to the new.<br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #4f6228; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The script for the Wedding of Martha Kemma & Matthew Morrell<br />
<br />
Tod says:</span></b><span style="color: #4f6228; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> On behalf of Martha and Matthew,
welcome and thank you for coming to celebrate their wedding. <br />
<br />
All religions revere marriage, each in their own, unique way. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The unifying thought in all holy scriptures,
regarding marriage, is that </span><span style="color: #4f6228; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">the union of the husband and wife is regarded as an eternal
spiritual bond, created as a gift from the Creator. <br />
<br />
In Christianity an often used quote for marriage is from the Bible, Mark
Chapter 10:</span><span style="color: #4f6228; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="color: #4f6228; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">But at the beginning of creation God made
them male and female. </i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #4f6228; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">For this reason a man
will leave his father and mother and be united to his wife, and the two will
become one flesh. So they are no longer two, but one.</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #4f6228; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Therefore what God has joined together, let
man not separate.<br />
</span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #c0504d; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Helen says:</b> </span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #c0504d; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">A prayer from the Eastern Orthodox Church ~ O Merciful God, we
beseech Thee ever to remind us that the married state is holy, and that we must
keep it so; Grant us Thy grace, that we may continue in faithfulness and love;
Increase in us the spirit of mutual understanding and trust, that no quarrel or
strife may come between us; Grant us Thy blessings, that we may stand before
our fellows and in Thy sight as an ideal family; And finally, by Thy mercy,
account us worthy of everlasting life: For Thou art our sanctification, and to
Thee we ascribe glory, to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Spirit, now
and ever and unto ages of ages. Amen.</span></i><span style="color: #4f6228; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div>
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #4f6228;">Tod says:</span></b><span style="color: #4f6228;"> In the Baha’i Faith scripture tells us that the true
marriage of Baha’is is this, that husband and wife should be united both
physically and spiritually, that they may ever improve the spiritual life of
each other, and may enjoy everlasting unity throughout all the worlds of God. <br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">O ye two believers in God! The Lord,
peerless is He, hath made woman and man to abide with each other in the closest
companionship, and to be even as a single soul. They are two helpmates, two
intimate friends, who should be concerned about the welfare of each other.</i></span><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #4f6228;">If they
live thus, they will pass through this world with perfect contentment, bliss,
and peace of heart, and become the object of divine grace and favour in the
Kingdom of heaven. </span></i><br />
<div class="opening">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #4f6228;">Strive,
then, to abide, heart and soul, with each other as two doves in the nest, for
this is to be blessed in both worlds.<br />
<br />
</span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #c0504d;">Katrina
says:</span></b><span style="color: #c0504d;"> A prayer from the Baha’i Faith: H</span></i><span style="color: #c0504d;">e is God! O peerless Lord! In Thine almighty wisdom
Thou hast enjoined marriage upon the peoples, that the generations of men may
succeed one another in this contingent world, and that ever, so long as the world
shall last, they may busy themselves at the Threshold of Thy oneness with
servitude and worship, with salutation, adoration and praise. “I have not
created spirits and men, but that they should worship me.” Wherefore,
wed Thou in the heaven of Thy mercy these two birds of the nest of Thy love,
and make them the means of attracting perpetual grace; that from the union of
these two seas of love a wave of tenderness may surge and cast the pearls of
pure and goodly issue on the shore of life. “He hath let loose the two
seas, that they meet each other: Between them is a barrier which they
overpass not. Which then of the bounties of your Lord will ye deny?
From each He bringeth up greater and lesser pearls.” O Thou kind Lord!
Make Thou this marriage to bring forth coral and pearls. Thou art verily
the All-Powerful, the Most Great, the Ever-Forgiving. <b>‘Abdu’l-Bahá</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #4f6228; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />Tod says:</span></b><span style="color: #4f6228; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> It is the strength of
the commitment of the two individuals that will determine the strength and bond
of the marriage. Matthew and Martha, with the blessings and approval of their
parents, have chosen to marry one another. They choose to say the vows that
will unite them through eternity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #244061;">Matthew takes
Martha’s hand and says:</span></b><span style="color: #244061;"> “We will all,
verily, abide by the Will of God” and places the ring on Martha’s finger. </span><br />
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #403152;">Martha takes
Matt’s hand and says:</span></b><span style="color: #403152;"> “We will all,
verily, abide by the Will of God,” and places the ring on Matthew’s finger.</span><br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Matthew then removes the veil from
Martha’s face and kisses her. </b><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<span style="color: black;"></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #4f6228; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Tod says:</span></b><span style="color: #4f6228; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> And with this simple,
but profound, vow, Matthew and Martha have become partners in a new creation,
the divine institution which is their marriage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>May I present to their family and friends, Mr & Mrs. Matthew &
Martha Kemma Morrell. <br />
<br />
</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">They turn to the guests, holding
hands, and smile. Music starts up and they walk back down the aisle followed by
Kahlil and Olivia, then Helen and Katrina and then Martha’s father, then
Matthew’s parents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />As Matt and Martha get to the end of the wedding
aisle carpet Tod makes announcements<br />
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #4f6228;">Tod says:</span></b><span style="color: #4f6228;"> Please leave row by row to go through the receiving
line. Pictures of the wedding party will then take place while the room is
prepared for the reception. Feel free to relax and wait here. The reception
will begin in approximately one half hour.</span> </span></div>
<br />The wedding and reception was held at the log cabin at Camp Rilea. It was simple, beautiful, and we are so very grateful to all who participated in so many different ways, from near and afar. Love to you, one and all. <br />CBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608603962532054186noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34961842.post-29975089163905521252015-02-05T02:13:00.003-08:002015-02-05T15:36:47.571-08:00Pacific Northwest Property For Sale<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5URer3OoeNukcueRSjZSzluME-8wmYBxDeecN6CmzVZaJCy4KlRqMVx_qa-L-nr5YMckN3UUqpPpn72vVJ8IYVqzaZbz2EObWuiT1RzwjNwGyQvMix1b8bd-UsBPFIst3kvEwOw/s1600/Home+ad.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5URer3OoeNukcueRSjZSzluME-8wmYBxDeecN6CmzVZaJCy4KlRqMVx_qa-L-nr5YMckN3UUqpPpn72vVJ8IYVqzaZbz2EObWuiT1RzwjNwGyQvMix1b8bd-UsBPFIst3kvEwOw/s1600/Home+ad.JPG" height="320" width="254" /></a></div>
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Located just outside of Astoria, Oregon (oldest city west of the Rockies) this property has only been owned by one family since the 1860s, before that no one owned it. All original miles, many nooks that maybe no one has ever traipsed. Just under 7 acres in an R2 zoned area. Two sites fully developed with all utilities and septic systems installed and the possibility for a third site with utilities brought in but not installed. </div>
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One of the sites is waterfront, on the banks of the Walluski River, with a 1976 built Adair home. Three+ bedrooms, 1.5 baths, needs some TLC, but has a septic system, water, electricity, cable and internet running to it. Securing a water line is important as there is often a moratorium on the water and new development is restricted without water rights. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0HRHcD8TypB7636QWgBwv3Uv-RqG-W_k00N9tQZUz6s5qnZy-Ns1pBPGbZptG8xMnzgI11WeCNDjPh4pUnSaa8p_IyADZF9-XtHPH5GGKdIjhsgSHGS8QAqBC5_YEUNnC68BgTA/s1600/skyview.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0HRHcD8TypB7636QWgBwv3Uv-RqG-W_k00N9tQZUz6s5qnZy-Ns1pBPGbZptG8xMnzgI11WeCNDjPh4pUnSaa8p_IyADZF9-XtHPH5GGKdIjhsgSHGS8QAqBC5_YEUNnC68BgTA/s1600/skyview.JPG" height="175" width="320" /></a></div>
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The second site just has a 14x70 trailer that was used as a storage unit. This site has the largest septic system that can be put in for a residential unit, capable of handling a six bedroom home and an RV hookup. The site also has water, electricity, cable and internet running to it. There is an orchard with various apple trees, two kinds of pear, cherry trees, marionberry, blueberry, and raspberry bushes, a fig tree and an almond tree. This property will be going to auction on April 28th. If you buy now you won't be in a bidding war for the rarely available sites that are fully developed and already own water rights. You also will get the plans for the property, the septic system installation, and the house plans for the home. On Zillow the home on just a 200'x200' lot is appraised st $228,000. All 6.9 acres, two fully developed homesites and one potential homesite can be yours for $499,999. Look for our ad in the Sunday LA Times. </div>
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What we are offering <span class="_5yl5" data-reactid=".vi.$mid=11423017454659=271ef5fb1eed4b69931.2:0.0.0.0.0"><span data-reactid=".vi.$mid=11423017454659=271ef5fb1eed4b69931.2:0.0.0.0.0.0"><span data-reactid=".vi.$mid=11423017454659=271ef5fb1eed4b69931.2:0.0.0.0.0.0.$end:0:$0:0">the new owner is some of the last available Walluskie
land in the heart of the wild foothills of the coastal range- deer, elk,
cougar, coyotes, eagles, and osprey are regular visitors to this secluded estate as well as succulent salmon, steel head and organic
gluten free waterfowl. Seafood is just fifteen minutes away where clams and crabs are waiting for you to come and pluck them from the beach. </span></span></span></div>
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Want to know a little more about Astoria and what's so great about living here? Here's a short video of pictures of what you can see and do, the theaters we have, the movies made here, the fun in the sun, water, and rain. It is a mere hour from the mountains and snow, 90 miles from Portland International Airport, fifteen minutes from a beach, ten minutes from a lake and a blink of an eye from a river. You need this property. Build on one site and rent out or sell the other. Use for corporate retreats or full time living. </div>
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If you are interested, email twowings19 at yahoo dot com
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CBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608603962532054186noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34961842.post-26357455618104244762014-11-26T19:11:00.001-08:002014-11-27T02:40:25.783-08:00Standing by ... in Ferguson<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Have you seen, “A Time To Kill”? <span class="st">John Grisham's book</span> made into a
movie with Michael McConaughey. <i><b></b></i>At the end of the trial scene, McConaughey gives
a stirring speech. I love that speech. I think of that speech when I watch
Ferguson burn. I hear McConaughey’s voice as I read all the remarks Facebook
friends make in their status updates. And I wonder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
I’d like you to imagine. Imagine a cop, on his beat. Earlier in the day he
watched a gang of young punks hanging out, lounging on a park picnic table,
while families made a wide berth around them. They are talking loudly, music
blaring, and scowling at anyone who looks their way. The cop doesn’t like how
they’ve taken over the parks, and in the winter time the only two malls in
town. He knows people fear them, because he fears them a little. He is
intimidated by how they look, their size, and that angers him. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The cop doesn’t see it, but he just
knows that the occasional person that stops by and shakes hands with this gang of thugs
is really buying drugs. He is tired of it, but they are a small city and don’t
have the money for the proper man power it would take to police all the suspicious activity. All he can do is observe. He’s had to spend five days in the
last year in trainings that are supposed to help him do his job better, but he
doesn’t see much good when the community he is supposed to be helping hates his
profession so much. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
This profession that he thought would be such a great way to serve, but also
get a little ahead in life, has turned out to be a disappointment. Repeatedly he has been passed over for promotions,
for raises, for special assignments. He is learning, the hard way, about the
politics of his job. It seems it has little to do with justice. Who gets ahead,
who gets targeted, everything to do with politics.<br />
<br />
A call comes in. Robbery in progress. He and his partner race to the scene. The
perpetrators are long gone. The owner of the small corner grocery store has a
bloody face where one of the thugs had punched him before taking everything in
the till. A paltry $25 and a fistful of change. The owner swears he saw a gun
in the waistband of one of them, but the surveillance tapes don’t show lower
than counter high so it is impossible to tell. If the men are caught with guns, they will
be charged with armed robbery, otherwise it could be knocked down to a misdemeanor.
The cop shakes his head. This is not the town he grew up in. Too many good
people moving out, too many others moving in. The population constantly changing
and it is hard to get a read on the people in the neighborhoods he used to know
like the back of his hand. <br />
<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He studies the video tape. Try as he
might, he can’t see anything more than a general description of the two men. He
can make out height, weight and race and that’s about it. He barely had to note the race, he knows the statistics on which race had the most drug problems. Nothing else physically stands out
about the men, both wearing hooded sweatshirts and sun glasses. It frustrates him to no
end that good, decent, people can’t even come to the corner grocery store
without the fear of running on the foul side of one of these punks. <br />
<br />
His partner’s shift is over. Because of cuts in the budget he only has a
partner for half the shift. The other half is solo. Unemployment is high and
taxes go unpaid, and it always seems like law enforcement takes the first hit
when the city has to decide what to cut. His frustration mounts. Little
resources, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even if he could identify the
guy that did this and arrested him, the punk would be out before he finished
the paperwork. Especially if they don’t find a gun on him. Deep down, he sort
of hopes he does find a gun on the next creep. That’s the only thing that would
keep him in jail until the trial. The more he thinks about it, the angrier he
gets. <br />
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Suddenly, he thinks he sees one of those gangster-wanna-bes alone, strolling down the sidewalk, acting like he owned the
place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The cop hollers to the guy, tells him he wants to talk to him. He isn’t sure, yet, what he’s going to do. The guy looks at
him and the cop motions him to come closer. The guy does and the cop asks him his
name. Begrudgingly, the guy tells him. The cop asks him if he was in the
grocery store that had been robbed. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
guy tells him to go to hell, he’s not answering any more questions. Anger swells
through the cop. He is now sure it is the same guy. He hollers that if the guy
isn’t going to answer questions here, he’s taking him down to the station to
answer questions there. The cop gives the slow wink and follows with a glare that shows he means business while adding through a snarl, "if you make it to the station." That should show the punk who is in charge.<br />
<br />
In response, the guy reaches through the window and punches the cop
in the face!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The cop is outraged. How
dare this two-bit, wretched piece of garbage touch him? How dare "scum" physically assault HIM? The cop screams that he’s going to
kill the punk and as he reaches for his revolver the guy reaches for it, too! <br />
<br />
What the
hell? Is this thug going for HIS gun?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
Are you imagining it? The wrestling over the revolver, the anger and
frustration of the cop, then the panic that this disgusting piece of garbage
that was ruining his community was going to do the most humiliating thing that
could happen to a cop, have his own gun wrestled away from him and maybe even
used on him! The cop frantically claws and finally grabs the gun free from the guy and fires. The guy staggers away. Adrenalin
pumping, the cop jumps out of his vehicle, he chases after the thug and fires
again, again, and again until the guy is on the ground, not moving. "Never will <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>this garbage rob another grocery store nor hang
out dealing drugs in another park," the cop thinks as he holsters his gun. <br />
<br />
<br />
Can you see this scene unfold? <br />
<br />
<br /><br />
Now, imagine the cop is
black.<br />
<br /><br /><br /><br />
Are you still standing by him?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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CBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608603962532054186noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34961842.post-90912754784594795132014-01-02T14:57:00.000-08:002014-01-02T14:57:03.853-08:00I'm Baaaack! Oh, and HAPPY NEW YEAR!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Almost three years since my last post! See what happens when you don't have a "Password Safe" to keep all of your passwords in? For the past year I have tried, obviously unsuccessfully, to log in to my blog. Whoever has the email address twowings19@****.*** I am so very sorry for the numerous times you were bothered by the alert that someone was trying to break into your account. I wasn't, I just forgot my own account. Apparently, I also forgot the name of my "favorite pet" as well as the date I was born. <br /><br />Ok, yes, of course I don't give any website, including Facebook, correct information about myself. I mean, really, if they are protecting me in case of hacking, it stands to reason with me that their sites aren't all that secure so why would I provide them with a bunch of information about myself? <br /><br />I like the sites where, if you lose a password they send a text to your cell phone. Come on, IF someone has my laptop ("Please log in from a device that you have previously logged in from") and my cell ("Please provide the phone number associated with this account") I think I am in a lot more trouble than worrying about if they are breaking into my blog account. <br /><br />So much has happened in the last three years. My husband and I are alone in our home, for the first time in our married lives! That has taken a lot of adjustment. Daughter #1 is married and has another baby. With her "new" husband that makes three grandchildren from her. Daughter #3 and her husband have two children with another on the way. Daughter #4 and her hubby have three children as well, and our son has a bouncing baby boy, too! As of today we have NINE grandchildren with number ten due in July. <br /><br />My mother and father have moved to Hawaii. Her health is much better since her bout with follicular cancer. She will never be "cured" from it (unless some dramatic cancer breakthrough occurs) but chemo treatments every five years to keep it in remission is doable. My dad's health fluctuates between amazing for someone with Parkinson's to "what the HELL is going on now?" More about that in another post. <br /><br />I am still struggling to keep my journalistic endeavor afloat. <br /><br />All in all, keeping very busy and, mostly, staying out of trouble. Looking forward to the holiday season about to commence. For many the holiday season may be pretty much over, but for us it has barely begun. Ayyam-i-Ha is just around the corner, followed by Naw Ruz and the 12 days of Ridvan Festival with the Fast in between it all. Plus, this year, hubby and I are again headed to Haifa for Pilgrimage in March! JOY!!!! <br /><br />We are also hosting weekly neighborhood devotions in our home, two each and every Thursday. One beginning at noon and another at 5 pm, lasting half an hour to 45 minutes. You can join us on your lunch break or on your way home from work, for those living/working in or around the Walluski and Olney areas. No preaching, no discussions, no donations accepted, just a mutual connection to the Divine. A neighborhood that prays together can do some amazing things together, in my humble opinion (hey, it almost rhymes depending on your accent and how you pronounce "things").<br /><br />One of my goals this year is to post more often here. Another goal was to get the weekly neighborhood devotions going. Now, I need to work on invites that are inviting and inclusive. Pretty much looking on this new Gregorian year with a sense of adventures yet to unfold. A little excited, a little scared. Let's be honest, the fear is what generates the excitement, eh? Life is like a roller coaster, the longer it takes to get to the top, the more exciting the ride down is going to be. CBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608603962532054186noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34961842.post-91280582690342649792011-07-26T06:03:00.000-07:002011-07-26T06:03:00.613-07:00Thank-you For Entertaining Me!Way back "when" Robert Downy, Jr. had a serious problem with addictions. It appeared that he was self-destructive and spent much time between making movies getting into serious trouble, even spending time in prison.<br />
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I, for one, am so very pleased he did whatever it was he did to become the actor he is, today. I enjoy his acting immensely. I loved him in <i><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kiss_Kiss_Bang_Bang" title="Kiss Kiss Bang Bang">Kiss Kiss Bang Bang</a> </i>and in<i> . </i>When I reflect on the joy watching these movies brings me I am also saddened by the loss of another actor I enjoyed immensely, Heath Ledger.<br />
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Very rarely do I get emotional over the loss of someone who is not immediately connected to me, via family or friend. Just am not wired that way, I guess. I empathize with someone else's loss, but I don't become emotionally involved. But when Heath Ledger died I felt like the world had lost a great entertainer, and I cried to think that I would never see him act in something new, again.<br />
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After Ledger's death I have begun really appreciating the new work each of my favorite performing artists does. Johnny Depp, John Cusak, Nicholas Cage, Mathew McConnehay, Luke Wilson, thank-you for doing what you do. Jodie Foster, Joan Cusak, Meg Ryan, Julia Roberts, Sandra Bullock, Anne Heche, Mariska Hargitay, Edie Falco, thanks for making me laugh, cry, moan, whoop and just take me away for the moment to somewhere else!<br />
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I think too often media centers their focus on tragedies. I think, too often, media centers too much attention on the private lives of those who "entertain" us. As if a $20 ticket to an event entitles us to be voyeurs into those people's personal lives.<br />
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Personally, I don't care about "who" these people "really are". Just like all of us, they will present to the world what they want the world to see, and I am okay with that. I don't care what one of them wears to whatever party is where ever its at. I am content to just enjoy who it is they are pretending to be while I scrunch down in my seat at the Gateway Theater, waiting for them to "take me away" to another place, another time, another point of view.<br />
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I made the serious mistake awhile ago of reading about Tom Cruise's perspective on "religion". Shortly after that he left Nicole Kidman and took up with someone half his age. This has ruined Cruise for me. I will watch a film inspite of the fact that he is in it, instead of because he is in it. So sad, for me. I am quite sure it is no great loss to him, lol!<br />
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It is with relief that I note, as I wait in line at the supermarket, that I rarely know anyone on the front cover of any of trash magazines. So my eyes can casually drift over the headlines without influencing how I am going to chose my next movie. In my perfect world, these kinds of magazines would disappear in a puff of smoke. I appreciate we live in a free-market world. I hope that, soon, people will just be happy with the two hours that their ticket purchased and stop with feeling like that "deserve" any "more" from these entertainers, whether they are on the stage, in film, or in an arena or on a playing field. I honestly don't think our entertainers owe us any look into their private lives any more than they "deserve" look into ours if they subscribe to a blog one of us writes on.<br />
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And, uh-huh, sports is entertainment. Players are entertainers. Where would we be if Downey Jr was banned from show business because of his drug habit? I don't care if some sports guy has a drug habit and think it utterly ridiculous that someone is banned from an entertainment field if s/he fails a drug test. While OWNERS of teams certainly have a right to have certain requirements for their employees a whole field of the entertainment industry being able to ban people from doing what gives them a sense of identity or is a grounding point for them seems highly barbaric and archaic to me. Get over yourselves, athletic industry, you are an entertainment industry. If your people don't entertain us, we will quit watching and you will quit "producing" your reality brand of entertainment. If our kids are looking at athletes as their "role models" that is our fault, lay off the bizarre rules that change from sport to sport.CBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608603962532054186noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34961842.post-40618111546447291392011-01-26T03:16:00.000-08:002011-01-26T03:16:23.755-08:00Stun of a Witch, its been one of those daze!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicyjNCEsSWc74vuzOKWSi9OVRRWgq_tk3K0E7DbVA4k5WZ_mnQRilF6cA5g9pfKT5bKowKxJtt6RDm6it7o1ADRsCKvm1c21UpNUBBuivu_d7t0Xo4P1e1bPq1jJEi5hyphenhyphenQ9wGD-A/s1600/thedeerisevidentlyevil03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicyjNCEsSWc74vuzOKWSi9OVRRWgq_tk3K0E7DbVA4k5WZ_mnQRilF6cA5g9pfKT5bKowKxJtt6RDm6it7o1ADRsCKvm1c21UpNUBBuivu_d7t0Xo4P1e1bPq1jJEi5hyphenhyphenQ9wGD-A/s320/thedeerisevidentlyevil03.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">These last couple of days have been nothing short of weird, weird, weird leaving me walking around in a complete daze! People that I thought I knew, pretty comfortingly well, hit me upside the head with some philosophies(?) that must have been percolating for quite a while now but I have been quite oblivious to. While having differing viewpoints is what makes this world go around and life fairly interesting their viewpoint on what I do, as well as what others have done, was what stunned me and made me feel, well, weird. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Then I had to deal with the fall out of that, phone calls of other people who found out and then the funny part (and sort of weird) from people who thought all along I was someone else. It began to feel rather like a Shakespearean "Mid Winter's Night Dream" and just when I thought it couldn't get any weirder, today dawns and I find out more "shenanigans" from Mr. Foster, a newly elected commissioner is also a realtor and he hired a woman whose house he can't sell to run some sort of retreat for the county commissioners, the private school my grandchildren were going to enter in the fall has been closed down and then AFTER five o'clock when the county offices close down so I can't verify, I hear that three people who thought they were commissioners and made some pretty spectacular decisions on January 12th possibly weren't sworn in properly and may have to be sworn in again! I find out that this was discovered possibly Monday and yet an amended agenda hasn't been sent out to the media. If these folks weren't sworn in properly on the 12th what happens regarding the LNG Pipeline land use application that they voted to take back from LUBA? </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The County Charter, Chapter III Section 2 states </div><div class="body" style="text-align: justify;"><i>Term of Office. </i></div><blockquote dir="ltr" style="margin-right: 0px;"> <div class="body">(A) The term of office of an elected County Commissioner is four years and begins on or after January 1 of the year following election upon administration of the oath of office. </div><div class="body">(B) Commissioners serve until the succeeding Commissioner has taken the oath of office</div></blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"> It will be interesting to see what others make of this and what County has to say in the morning, and if there is an amended agenda. Surely they won't just have the commissioners arrive at 4:45 before the work session and slip it in then? I don't think they can do that without notifying the public about why the commissioners are meeting each time they meet. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Then, tonight, to top it all off personally, I went into Warrenton to buy a used vacuum cleaner because 1) I like to reuse whenever possible, and 2) I am cheap. It was a nice Bissell and it was only $25. Mom and Dad are headed home after being in Hawaii for two months and they are depressed enough coming home to the weather so I wanted to make the indoors as nice as possible. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">After picking up the Bissell I was driving home and came to a stop at the stop sign at the corner of SW 9th and Cedar and you know what happened? A DEER hit me! YAH, a DEER HIT ME! And that deer hit me so hard that it popped my passenger side window out and rained safety glass all over me! I was so stunned and it made such a loud pop when it happened I really thought someone had shot the window out and any moment a bright light was going to shine and Grandpa Roy was going to be there, calling to me to follow the light!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">No such luck. Instead the deer springs up, looks in at me and takes off again with a freaking german shepherd dog chasing it! Of course my little malibu is all paid off so the only insurance we carry on it is the kind if we hit someone or if someone is hurt. Now, maybe, if that deer was to sue US there might be some money! I called the police anyhow to let them know that there was a deluded deer running around Warrenton hitting cars with a german shepherd chasing and that glass was all over 9th street. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The officer came and took pictures in case they catch the dog or someone else has a run in with this dynamo duo. He was very nice and helped me get the mess off the road and drape a blanket in the window so I wouldn't have such a cold drive home. I had also called the hubby so he was outside waiting for me. He couldn't believe that a deer had done that much damage and walked away. He kept asking me if I was sure it was a deer. YEAH, it was a deer and I wasn't moving. The officer can testify to that. Glass all over the street right by the stop sign. On the side by the stop sign but no paint on my car so NO I DIDN'T HIT THE STOP SIGN! My husband laughed, remembering when a deer chased me in Jewell in my sister-in-laws truck and hit that! </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Yes, deer hate me. Not the vehicle, me. They look up and see me and say, "Hey, I think you used to hunt us all the time and I think you shot our great great great granddaddies." Never mind that at least a quarter of the county has done the same. For some reason the deer have decided to take all their angst out on me. You just watch, tomorrow, at the Board Meeting, either right before it or right after it, a seagull is going to deposit a load on me. I'm bringing an umbrella. I don't care if its a beautiful day tomorrow. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div>CBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608603962532054186noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34961842.post-70272418760508963332011-01-12T02:09:00.000-08:002011-01-12T02:09:06.332-08:00Now THAT'S Entertainment!<div style="text-align: justify;">Have you noticed that when you criticize a television show, even when it is your admittedly favorite one, no one says (or writes) to you, "Why don't you take up acting if you think you can do it better?" or "If you think you can do a better job, why don't you try coming up with a better script?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Isn't it odd, though, that if you criticize a sport team or player someone will, invariably, tell you that if you think you can do a better job why don't you go and do it? </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">No one calls anyone an "armchair director" when they criticize the way a movie is developing, but criticize the way a play was ran and you are scoffed at as a "wannabe coach." </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Some people wonder where the "rash" of "reality tv" has come from, under the delusion that it is a new phenomenon breaking the screen as we crested into the 21st century but the truth is that "reality tv" was just about all that television had to offer beginning back in 1939 with the first televised sporting event, a college baseball game between Columbia and Princeton. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">According to The Museum of Broadcast Communications:</div><blockquote> "Television got off the ground because of sports," reminisced pioneering television sports director Harry Coyle. He coninued, "Today, maybe, sports need television to survive, but it was just the opposite when it first started. When we (NBC) put on the World Series in 1947, heavyweight fights, the Army-Navy football game, the sales of television sets just spurted." With only 190,000 sets in use in 1948, the attraction of sports to the networks in its early period was not advertising dollars. Instead, broadcasters were looking toward the future of the medium, and aired sports as a means of boosting demand for television as a medium. They believed their strategy would eventually pay off in advertising revenues. But because NBC, CBS and DuMont manufactured and sold receiver sets, their more immediate goal was to sell more of them. Sports did indeed draw viewers, and although the stunning acceptance and diffusion of television cannot be attributed solely to sports, the number of sets in use in the U.S. reached ten and a half million by 1950.</blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"> Sports, the first "reality tv" shows have continued to bring us all the drama, excitement, mayhem, murders, mysteries, tears, dreams, glory, underdogs, champions that any "reality" show has done. And, yet, talk to many a sports enthusiast and they are loathe to call sports "entertainment" or athletes "entertainers". </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Nevermind that the athlete would cease to be paid if no one cared to watch their sport. AH-HA, says the sports enthusiast, THAT'S WHAT MAKES AN ATHLETE DIFFERENT, S/HE WOULD STILL CONTINUE IN THE SPORT! And how is that different than the actor in the off Broadway show, or the local town theater? </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Can a college violinist get paid a cadillac, while still at school, if he promises to play in the Portland Symphony instead of going off to Philadelphia without being penalized in some petty manner? Why is college/university sports dictated to by some petty organization that makes babies out of full grown adults? People old enough to die for our country but not old enough to know whether or not someone is taking advantage of them by buying them a car while they are still in school? What the heck kind of rules are those? Really! </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Why have we made gods of our athletes? If Tom Cruise was raising fighting cocks would they take away his actors guild card? Should they? Of course not. If you or I do something illegal we shouldn't have our means of regaining our position in society stripped from us. Why, in the name of sanity, would someone who has paid their debt to society (ie served their time in prison and are now out) have to beg for their license to continue in their occupation? Especially an occupation like ENTERTAINMENT! If the people want to punish the person they WON'T COME TO WATCH. And whoever hired him/her knows "whoops". But the licensing organization has no right to keep the card from the person.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">It comes back to a whacky society. A society that, on one hand, bemoans the fact that "kids nowadays refuse to take responsibility for their actions" and on the other hand, this same society will say, "Reparations? Why in the hell should I pay for something that happened before I was even born?" Because, dumbass, it wasn't before your country was born and its your country that owes the damn debt! It says so in the damn precious federalist papers and every other founding father paper that the reason they kept slavery is because without it our country would dissolve and be bankrupt! </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Anyhu, this gets back to sports. Its just an entertaining game. There, I said it. And when the entertainers screw up or displease me (whether or not I loved them on some other night) I'm gonna say so. Monday night I didn't see the big "OH", I saw a bunch of little uh-ohs. Yeah, it was nice they got that far. Its just too bad their coaches didn't play in a bowl game last year so they could be prepared for the bowl game this year, like Auburn. OH! Whoops. Erase that, reverse. Auburn didn't play in a bowl game last year, did they? Which team DID play in a bowl game? </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Thank goodness we have Beaver Baseball and Jordan Poyer to look forward to. </div>CBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608603962532054186noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34961842.post-4396094719179296552011-01-11T23:20:00.000-08:002011-01-11T23:20:00.331-08:00Black MondaySigh, sob, sigh, sob. ...<br />
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Sob.<br />
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The Ducks lost and ... we have the same governor. The sky reflects my heart.<br />
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Sob, sob, sob.<br />
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No, that isn't me crying. <br />
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sigh ... yeah, I see the fog rolling in. It'll hit about 8:45 am, Wednesday morning. Yippy skippy.CBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608603962532054186noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34961842.post-10755855318257382292011-01-09T15:21:00.000-08:002011-01-09T15:22:55.764-08:00Keep The Wave Going!<h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":"msg"}"><span class="messageBody">GO°¨¨°º¤ø¸„ø¤º°¨¨°º¤ø¸DUCKS¤ø ¸„ø¤º°¨¨°º¤ø ø¤º°¨¨¨°º¤ø ¸„ø¤GOº°¨¨°º¤ø<br />
¸„ø¤º°¨¨°º¤ø ¸„ø¤º°¨¨°º¤ø,DUCKS¤ø ¸„ø¤º°¨¨°º¤ø ø¤º°¤GO DUCKS!!<br />
¤GO°¨¨°º¤ø ¸„ø¤º°¨¨°º¤ø¸DUCKS¤ø ¸„ø¤º°¨¨°º¤ø ø¤º°¨¨¨°º¤ø<br />
¸„ø¤GOº°¨¨°º¤ø ¸„ø¤º°¨¨°º¤ø ¸„ø¤º°¨¨°º¤ø,DUCKS¤ø ¸„ø¤º°¨¨°º¤ø ø¤º°¤<br />
......GO DUCKS!!!!KEEP THE WAVE GOING! COPY AND PASTE! GO DUCKS!!!</span></h6><h6 class="uiStreamMessage" data-ft="{"type":"msg"}" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="messageBody"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-weight: normal;"> Yep, Sorry such a boring post for those of you not "into it" but this is harmless, mindless, FUN and probably one of the few things that my family, around the world, can agree on! We make allowance for the in-laws (and out-laws!). </span></span></span></h6>CBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608603962532054186noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34961842.post-76578754677424753302011-01-04T01:51:00.000-08:002011-01-04T02:03:10.310-08:00Call Me A Duck<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheGS3K5W_s78lcKm6dUuLPMVZDNWIMyKevZ96D8mXJu49p9ZW7fn73sFjjwy4PNoRI7CZ-Ynu67RoWPeQ2T-vXAdchn6zMoUGgmFIOjvw1WwuUhv2VLDfTpH4W4X0NGIM05UFOWA/s1600/UofO+Duck+Angry.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="169" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheGS3K5W_s78lcKm6dUuLPMVZDNWIMyKevZ96D8mXJu49p9ZW7fn73sFjjwy4PNoRI7CZ-Ynu67RoWPeQ2T-vXAdchn6zMoUGgmFIOjvw1WwuUhv2VLDfTpH4W4X0NGIM05UFOWA/s200/UofO+Duck+Angry.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Next Monday night our family is decked in Green 'n Gold from Japan to Hawaii. Skype and Ustream all ready to go, we'll do The Wave around the world!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">That is the neatest thing about the new technology, when it works. We spend more time talking to one another using it than we ever did when we all lived in the same town. Maybe we are just getting older and recognize how precious our time together is? I don't know. It is fun when we have all five laptops running skype and the sixth one running our Ustream channel, showing whatever it is we are all commenting on, be it a family party or a football game, or a wedding. We feel more connected, the far away less left out.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Having Charter Cable for our internet server makes it rather difficult, as we tend to be the hub of it a lot of the connections and Charter tends to suddenly quit on us for no apparent reason. Don't you just love calling Charter and getting that automated system? Do you even bother unplugging and plugging back in the modem anymore when you know darn well the tech that gets on 10 minutes later is going to ask you to do the same thing? </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I am thinking of going to <a href="http://www.virginmobileusa.com/mobile-broadband/broadband2go.html">Virgin Mobile broadband </a>and its MiFi 2200 hotspot. Does anyone have any comments on using Virgin Mobile in our area? It would be the same network as Sprint. It says that it will cover our home as well as all of Astoria, Warrenton and Seaside. Anyone have any comments on that?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">If Virgin Mobile works out then I think we will get rid of Charter, pay whatever the early disconnect fee is, cause I think we signed up for some sort of cable & internet bundle, and then just go with their cheapest cable price. We don't watch their movie channels, we watch netflix. We watch a lot of tvduck.com and Hulu. All I watch is reruns. The only thing that the guys would miss is sports if we totally abandoned cable and we are just about this close, too. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Here's a little video I am sure you all have already heard it, but one can never get enough of it, eh? I hope we hear a lot of it not only up to Monday, but a whole lot of it next Tuesday, too! Come on, Beavers, ya' know we would be cheering for you (think baseball, we'll be there for ya'). </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><center><object height="385" width="640"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/cNboYbN6wFY?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/cNboYbN6wFY?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="385"></embed></object></center><div style="text-align: justify;"></div>CBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608603962532054186noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34961842.post-21230875297899572412011-01-01T20:16:00.000-08:002011-01-02T04:16:37.118-08:00BANG! Happy New Year Michael Vick!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.artharris.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2007/08/vick-suit-tight-shot1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="193" src="http://www.artharris.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2007/08/vick-suit-tight-shot1.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Let's start the New Year off with a BANG! Let's discuss Michael Vick and the US of A's fickle and double standard society at large. While having a butt load of meat, such as chickens raised in heinous conditions, veal from calves that have never seen the light of day and farmed fish that have never known the freedom of the open seas, in our freezers and on our shelves society continues to condemn Vick's past involvement in dog fighting. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Vick was released from prison in 2009 after serving a 23-month sentence at Leavenworth Penitentiary in Kansas as punishment for his involvement with the Bad Newz Kennels, a dogfighting operation Vick ran at an estate he owned in rural Virginia. While dog-fighting was a part of his cultural heritage he owned up to it as being illegal and he took his punishment "like a man," and while in prison didn't blame others, even when financial ruin followed shortly behind. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">He has since left prison and been re-instated in the NFL to playing status, hired by the Eagles and is doing very well for himself and that appears to really, really piss people off. Apparently, he was supposed to get out of prison, start shooting up heroin, and end up out on the streets having spasmodic flashbacks to the times when he was violent with dogs. Just as we all do with each bite of our Insert-the-State-Here Fried Chicken, right? </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> How many people watch dog fights? If this wasn't a popular event would it be a profitable one? Are we concerned that all those people watching these events are out there, walking our streets, probably policemen, firemen, teachers, childcare providers, bus drivers, and health care providers? Are we outraged about how they are just living "normal" lives right now? Maybe that item they just bought online from you came from their winnings after betting on a dogfight? </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Society is outraged at Vick not only because he picked an animal that many of us consider "cute" to treat like many of us treat the animals we eat, but because he also belongs to that station many of us have chosen to idolize. If it was an entertainer from another spectrum of the talent pool, such as a movie star, would there be any doubt of him returning to the screen? Would someone suggest that his guild card be pulled? Vick is merely an entertainer, something a portion of society has yet to acknowledge. Sports are entertainment, people. When the sport they are participating in stops being entertaining people will stop watching. If people stop watching the money stops. If that isn't a definition of what entertainment is I don't know a better one. Stop making entertainers into gods and you won't be outraged when they are human beings. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLPwtoriy1h129HsQ0D9gtwUdpPF4VyEbidR4OveVMXvBC2za5qCF_2hn2g7hWkTa0H_a2NuhSrVwCHWYSOsNso0DAIqi-z_9K3FpC_iEqkF_aZZTukbPPF3zfmI0-2JicR6oFfw/s1600/dog+on+plate.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLPwtoriy1h129HsQ0D9gtwUdpPF4VyEbidR4OveVMXvBC2za5qCF_2hn2g7hWkTa0H_a2NuhSrVwCHWYSOsNso0DAIqi-z_9K3FpC_iEqkF_aZZTukbPPF3zfmI0-2JicR6oFfw/s200/dog+on+plate.jpg" width="161" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Vick broke a CULTURAL law, folks. He hurt an animal that has a face, an animal that many of us choose to have as pets and choose to attribute human feelings to. He said sorry, and he had his freedom revoked for 23 months. He can never own a firearm nor can he vote. Forever he has the word "felon" on his resume. But that isn't enough for some folks. Nope, they want him to either continue living only if it is a miserable life, or to have been actually <a href="http://sports.espn.go.com/nfl/news/story?id=5967015">executed for conducting dog fights</a>!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjckrySys8zhnaZziRpco3Axin-bNmT76IJ98JkEz2qZRuJnknCQM8dAWnrI2gOPuC3X3ZRSTu5CTYa0f5q9FPtYEOGQr2HjCUzaAFS2r-zI3zznH-1GaoSf-W3pJ9fiOibOFMllg/s1600/finding+nemo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjckrySys8zhnaZziRpco3Axin-bNmT76IJ98JkEz2qZRuJnknCQM8dAWnrI2gOPuC3X3ZRSTu5CTYa0f5q9FPtYEOGQr2HjCUzaAFS2r-zI3zznH-1GaoSf-W3pJ9fiOibOFMllg/s200/finding+nemo.jpg" width="136" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Everything that we do, as human beings, has an impact on life around us. Is the answer to this fact complex laws regulating all of our movements? That would seem to be what many people want to see happen. "One law fits all" society where we each take pleasure in tattling on each and everything that we see the other doing. I honestly see little difference between what Vick was doing and what happens to veal calves or fish. People talk about the horrors that deer go through being chased by hunters but no one sticks up for the fish being played out by the sports fisherman. Why? Because fish aren't cute. It's hard, even after <i>Finding Nemo</i>, to ascribe human empathy to fish. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Over and over again those who want the environment, be it cultural, political or physical, to go their own way look for the short cut of doing it by force rather than by education but it is well proven that when <a href="http://bic.org/areas-of-work/csw/csw2008/financing-gender-equality-and-empowerment-of-women/?searchterm=education">people are educated and make a change because they own the ideas</a> the change spreads and inspires more change, the changes feeding on one another. And yes, they are not controlled.and can be chaotic for a while. They are born out of the best in us which cannot be controlled, at the most it can be guided. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">When our educational systems join the 21st century and teaches our children how to learn instead of what to learn, when the system relearns what its ultimate goal is, then will our society begin to change in a profoundly different and deeper way. When we look at our children as gems waiting to be mined, and not by us but by their ownselves, our society will change. The cruelties that we see, manifesting themselves against animals, the earth, whoever or whatever is "different", will fall by the wayside of our own volition. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Until then, our prisons will remain full of addicts, the mentally and emotionally crippled, the political dissenters, the cultural mores challengers and the very few real criminals that choose to inflict carnage on their fellow man to satisfy their own selfish desires. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><object height="385" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/lwClUAZSVII?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/lwClUAZSVII?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object></div>CBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608603962532054186noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34961842.post-68434556149199313692010-11-22T04:30:00.000-08:002010-11-22T04:30:02.285-08:00That was then, this is now<div style="text-align: justify;">Our thirty year class reunion was last August. It seems like every since I have been taking many strolls down memory lane regarding my childhood I have been spending an inordinate amount of time thinking about my past. It is amazing, to me, how much of my happiness has been in the past 10 years. True, contented, happiness.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I have heard some people say they had idyllic childhoods or that they peaked in high school. When I think back to those years I know I can look forward because the best is yet to come.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I have great childhood memories, some good grade school memories, and ok Jr. High School memories, not so fond of High School memories. It seems so weird that my hubby plays either no role or a negative role in those memories. The man who is now such a pivotal part of my life wasn't in those years, and yet, now, my best times have been with him.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Conversely, my worst times have also been with this man. The bad memories I have from school appear to have something to do with him. And, in the twenty plus years we have been together we have been through some real, real bad times. But, as everyone knows, bad times do make good times all that much better. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Hubby and my memories of school helped us to come to the decision to homeschool. It had very little to do with the kids and everything to do with the teachers. When a certain middle school principle condescendingly told hubby and I to harken back to when we were in school. He actually told us he was the same man that was our principle (he was the vice principle) and we should have just as much confidence in him now as we did then. We both realized we did and we yanked our kids. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">It dawned us both that those teachers would have our children 40 hours a week. Those teachers who threw chalk and erasers at kids out of frustration, anger, teaching apathetically or even those who taught passionately but just from their point of view and then tested kids based on their slanted viewpoint of life.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">One of the cool things of marrying someone from school who was in the same grade but in a completely different circle of friends, as well as a different religion, is that we have been able to compare stories. I learned that all those times that hubby and friends skipped school were not spent drinking and partying. They had an elaborate forest treefort, actually more like a tree village, that they had all built and which they spent many long days defending in bb gun wars. This continued on up into high school. Many battle scars are from bb gun bullets shot at too close of range or if someone had pumped more than they should have, making the shot more powerful.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I learned that the spit wads in my hair in ninth grade English were my hubby's doing. No, nothing so romantic as love, or like, in the least. I was the weirdo Bahai with "stuck up" friends. Ninth grade English was miserable for me. None of my friends were in it and I was plagued by hateful boys sitting in the backrow. Hubby is shame faced about it now. More so because he sees it not only as my spouse, but as a Baha'i himself.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">For me, that was the hardest. Baha'i camps and retreats were these totally awesome places. You didn't have to fake being anything, you could just be you. No one ever called someone a "fag" people didn't stare at black people and call them names behind their backs, two girls could actually hold one another's hands, even in eighth grade, without hearing snickers. And there were no wall flowers at the dances. No one ever said "no" if you asked them to dance, and you never said "no". The older kids always looked out for the younger ones. It was so "cool" to have a college boy ask you to dance, which made all the other guys want to dance. Our dances weren't divided up into ages. So you had everyone out there dancing.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The camps were family camps, mostly, and so there wasn't the "oddness" of jamming this group of people, all the same age, together to try to figure out life using all the same half assembled tools and coming to the same, untried, sophomoric, answers. You were with a diverse group of people of all ages and races and they were electric! Then you would come back home to plain, old, boring "vanilla."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">After hubby went to his first camp after becoming a Baha'i he exclaimed, "THATS what you got to do on school breaks?" He was flabbergasted at how I could come home from something like that and turn around and go to school on Monday. While it often was reinvigorating, around the second or third day back I would hit a wall, and it would be depressing for a day or two. It wasn't just the kids. It was the teachers. We were living in pretty hopeless times, then. It was the '70s. We had been lied to by Nixon, we knew that the Russians had "the bomb" but we also knew that crouching beneath our desks wasn't going to save our butts from anything! Our school had a bomb shelter (the locker rooms) city hall had a bomb shelter, and I can't think where else but I do remember learning in our health class how to look for the upside down dotted triangle signifying a shelter was nearby.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">While our Faith taught us we were at the beginning of a new 500,000 year dispensation our schools told us to prepare for the end of the world. Our graduating class, if I remember correctly, was called one of the most apathetic that our high school principle had ever encountered. In our health class our teacher, Ms. Brown, taught us that if we were abducted, to submissively follow the captors orders as our chances of being released alive increased for submissive people, while fighters died. How weird, I thought, to teach a classroom of sophomores to be submissive.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Being the naive person that I was, and thinking teachers liked input even when it countered what they said, I piped up, "My mom told me to never, ever go with anyone who tried to grab me. I am supposed to fight, scream, and do anything to draw attention to us." Ms. Brown fixed a glare on me, "Even if he has a gun?" she sneered. "Especially if he has a gun. My mom says if he is showing a gun and his face he's probably going to shoot me anyways and I have a better chance of getting help if I am shot downtown Astoria than out of one of the logging roads." I didn't think then was the time to add what else my mom had said, "And if you do go with the man and we find your body shot and mutilated I will scrape it up off the logging road and beat it." Somehow, it made her sound a little crazy and took away all the logic of the first part of her advice. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I remember that the teacher was not thrilled with my answer and commented dryly that while we needed to follow the advice of our parents and our own safety plan for the sake of the test HER answer was the "correct" one. Another reason we homeschooled our kids. Deduction and reasoning not allowed, one correct answer for the masses and only one. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Then I remember being frightened so often. What would friends think if I said this, wore that, did the other? What if I don't know the answer? What if I do know the answer? Can't be too smart, can't be too dumb. So much of my life seemed to be controlled by what others thought about me. What is funny is I can't remember when I stopped caring what others thought. Not the "in your face" not caring, but the true, not even realizing it, not caring. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I know that now there are times when I care, but it is times I consciously choose. There are times when feed back from others is something I would like, but somehow it has morphed. Then it was friends, teachers, co-workers and bosses. Now it is husband, parents, children, grandchildren. Wow, I have grandchildren! Yeah, it is great when a story I have been working on for weeks, or sometimes months, gets noticed and complimented, but I wouldn't stop writing if I didn't get it. If I didn't KNOW that my husband had my back? It is something I cannot even conceive of. If I didn't KNOW I had my children's love? Chilling thought. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Then and now. I like now. Even with the gray hair, sagging skin, wrinkles and pains. I choose now, and I look forward to tomorrow. </div>CBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608603962532054186noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34961842.post-66369371603515092002010-11-21T04:30:00.000-08:002010-11-21T04:30:01.152-08:00Ghosts of mistakes past<div style="text-align: justify;">As I write here I am conscious of the fact that other people's lives and their stories are their own. Even when they are "my" children and grandchildren their story does not belong to me. When mine were growing up they confronted me one time and told me that as much as they enjoyed hearing about stories from their childhood they were very uncomfortable hearing their lives played out to people they hardly knew. What I thought of as "funny" or "cute" they thought of as embarrassing and humiliating. And even some events I expressed with pride often made them uncomfortable because how I saw it come about or maybe the motivating force for them wasn't what they saw as their reality.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">For the year following it was hard to join in family or friendly dialogs about children. What is their "private" life and what "belongs" to us, as a family? I thought about how I would feel to overhear their comments on me. I cringed. As a result I have tried to let their stories be there's and when I tell stories here not to use their names so it is my story, my perception, my reality and not necessarily what "is" or "was". How one sees oneself is very important in how one projects and protects.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">That being said the following story is not a happy one. It is about ghosts. While they can't always be seen, and the only power they have is what you give them, they are there, always. That isn't necessarily a bad thing. It often gives one the impetus to preform great works, or to remain steadfast, or dedicated, focused. On the other hand, they can drive some to obsessions, depression, or revenge. I strive for balance when dealing with my ghosts. I thank God for my husband, who helps with perspective. He still isn't sure whether I was his reward or punishment for his own past!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">People have asked me where I get my "focus" and "drive". Others have accused me of being "obsessed". It is the way I deal with one of my ghosts. One thing I have learned from my ghosts is that in this world, in this country, in this state and especially in this county there is no such thing as "justice". There is a semblance of justice in the secular world but for those who do not have a religious or philosophical conviction, that not only explains why we have such injustice in this world, I do not understand why they bother to continue to care. They do amaze me, especially the ones that still think the best of people.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">More and more I find that the RUHI curriculum holds the answers and promises for a better tomorrow. For the first time in the history of humankind there is a curriculum that puts into practical practice the "theory" of democracy, the absence of hereditary or arbitrary class distinctions or privileges and teaches true consultation and the basics. Through RUHI the king learns to consult with the ditch-digger, with a true appreciation and respect for the ditch-digger's opinion. The ditch-digger learns his innate worth is equal to a king's and thereby his opinion is. They both learn that oppressing one from expression or ignoring the other through rebellion hurts not just themselves but the whole. The experience is incredible. At first blush the curriculum looks entirely too simple. It is only through exposure, through the doing, that one begins to learn the potential of this incredible, incredible tool. It is exciting, and without it I would not be a happy and (fairly) balanced person.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The injustice I see would be devastating to me, and sadly I know we see very little of what so many in this county, state, country and world are exposed to on a daily if not hourly basis. I am weak. My ghosts often seem too heavy for me to bear to look at. In the bright sunlight they fade almost to nothing, but in the night hour they appear all too clearly. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">In this county there is more than one family with a "heritage" of pedophilia. We, as a society, look the other way as our children's innocence is literally ripped away from them. We tell ourselves they are so young they won't remember. A truth or something we desperately need to believe? When they blow their heads off at the age of 19, 20 or 21 we tell ourselves it was the booze, the drugs, their age, whatever it takes to not allow the thought that we failed them, we allowed something to hurt them when we should have been watching over them. Amazingly, some think that since they lived through it, so can their child. Few stop to think, "Is this really living?" And those that do, what do they do if they think it isn't really living? Turn to drink, drugs, death?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I failed as a mother. Not a day goes by that I am not conscious of that fact. This isn't a plea for anyone's sympathy. It is an acknowledgment of what is. I knew of an evil in our community and because I joined the masses and turned my head one of mine was deeply wounded. The scar is permanent. Scars can be a mar on something that was perfect, or they can be badges of honor. Either way, that is for the owner of the scar to figure out. For the one who allowed the scar? Different than the one who caused the scar. The perpetrator and the victim have their own lives to live. What of those who merely "allowed"?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">We cannot remove the scar, nor can we tell the person how to live with it. We cannot mete out justice for the one who caused the scar. I believe, wholeheartedly, that fathers are more rational than mothers when it comes to defending their young. As a mother I have no pity for the perpetrator nor the pedophile family. I try to calm myself by looking at what has become of my sister and how would it feel for others to hold us accountable for her? But a part of me agrees with that assessment. And in this secular world I see no opportunity for justice to prevail.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Reading online I see that the ghost has reared its ugly head once again and in my mind's eye I vomit. This time no one I know was the victim. Do I duck my head, again, and look away? Part of me prays it is not one of the known pedophile families and this new incident has nothing to do with my own cowardice so many years ago. Another part of me is terrified it isn't one of the knowns and a new or unknown family has materialized in our midst.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">And what does this county do to help the situation? To help those who turn to drugs or alcohol to forget? Bandaids and punishment, that's what the local law thinks is the solution to all societies ills. The county lost its transition center. It is also looking for new administrators for its drug and alcohol programs. The sheriff and the district attorney are wailing for a new jail and more jail space, wailing for DUIIs to be punished more harshly in DA controlled courts, and everyone is wailing because of the high substance abuse in the county. Band-aids are wanted everywhere. Is no one asking WHY are people self-medicating? WHY do they want to forget? WHAT do they want to forget?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I am left with what to do to deal with my ghosts. I look for the balance and wonder how to protect when I know "the system" is incapable. The very best I know is education, but not of the mind, of the heart. If you have ever wondered what is it that makes me who I am, as a Baha'i or as an advocate, or just as a reporter, you can find a piece of the puzzle in the ghosts.</div>CBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608603962532054186noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34961842.post-19098519363447655002010-11-20T04:30:00.000-08:002011-02-11T20:15:25.621-08:00Quarking An Article<div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUvP225xNTs6vU8XlnY21nkE8HNUbSbz4xlHzFngeGJKzIsru7zlb39yrwSe88zWAe61xJt8b_07U4huAEoWu3pdMrSE-qh1Uwc0VQ0yzKLkVpaxQhxAWjA-4uPG34UDxCTyQLIg/s1600/quark.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUvP225xNTs6vU8XlnY21nkE8HNUbSbz4xlHzFngeGJKzIsru7zlb39yrwSe88zWAe61xJt8b_07U4huAEoWu3pdMrSE-qh1Uwc0VQ0yzKLkVpaxQhxAWjA-4uPG34UDxCTyQLIg/s1600/quark.jpg" /></a></div><i>I drafted this post in 2008 and, for some reason, never published it. At three years of age Eldest grandson, and his mother, was still living with us </i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Ever have so much work your brain is frozen? That's how I feel right now. I have so much work, almost too much work and it freezes my brain. The weird thing about aging, for me, is that I am getting dyslexic with it! Numbers get jumbled as well as my typing. I have to be very deliberate about my thought process, very focused. And when you have six or seven different story lines traveling in your mind, staying focused is hard. Add to this one of my lovable, adorable, cuddling, grandsons.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">My phone rings and someone is, literally, begging me to do a story because they feel it hasn't been given a just representation in the local press, or courts, or one of the local city or county councils/commissions. In between city council meetings, school board meetings, commissioner meetings, committee meetings, regattas, parades, fairs and holidays I investigate, call people, and in the interim follow up on four OTHER story lines where people have called to say that their stories aren't be covered by local media.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">While I am typing up notes, which so far isn't going the direction that one of the callers wanted or thought it would/could/should go in, eldest grandson wiggles his way up into my lap. "Can I help you type this 'Bika?" he asks. "No, Kaden," I reply, trying to peer around his head at the screen, so I can concentrate on what I just had written. "I'm not Kaden," he replies, "I am Quark." I pause in my typing. "You are Quark?" Where does he get this stuff? Sometimes he watches Star Trek with Papa, but not for some time now. Man I wish I had his memory!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Yes, I am Quark!" he declares, climbing down from my lap. "Ok, where's Kaden, then?" Quark launches into a story that left me worried, amused and amazed. Man, this kid is either headed for the stage, a literary agent or a psychiatric couch.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Kaden lost his skin," and "Quark" pulled on his skin in demonstration in case I wasn't familiar with the word, "and his muscles," Quark flexed his arm muscle and showed his calf muscle, "and his organs," Quark looked very sad at this one and pointed to his heart and stomach, "and just has a skeleton so his soul went to heaven." At this "Quark" put up his arms and shrugged his shoulders in the universal, "oh well" sign.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I stared at "Quark", my article forgotten. "I'm not entirely comfortable with Kaden's soul going to heaven just yet," I told him. "Oh, its okay, 'Bika. Heaven is a good place, where God can take care of you if you need Him to. Kaden can keep growing there." I said, "You are really freaking me out! Who told you this?" He pointed off to his side, "Little David here," no one was standing there, however his cousin's name is David, "and his mom, Auntie Alwex," he lisped out the last word, showing signs of babyhood, still, thank goodness! </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Yes," I confirmed, "Heaven is a good place, however, I would rather Kaden's soul was down here with the rest of him right now." "Would you like me to put him back together?" offered "Quark". Right about that time the cell rang and hubby was there, calling from Tillamook where he is working nights on a road job. I quickly brought him up to speed and he asked to speak to his "monkey head".</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">After that interruption it took me about an hour to find my place and get my head back into my article. "Amaze, amaze, amaze," as little Kimberly Jo used to say. </div>CBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608603962532054186noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34961842.post-54464678989936961872010-11-19T04:30:00.000-08:002010-11-19T04:30:01.247-08:00Meandering Maudlin Memory Lane<div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPllE6xCJZqF9jMI9PSKl0-hR-S53NC_MBeL2QWxkC5sPGVv4QVm3qr0RmOMsrpdsAwC3H4kDySx2htbmByMhcaN3khgm43ccCsvIty338S6LTz12hKYK1iPoFewfbm45t1vVXmA/s1600/Memory+Lane.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPllE6xCJZqF9jMI9PSKl0-hR-S53NC_MBeL2QWxkC5sPGVv4QVm3qr0RmOMsrpdsAwC3H4kDySx2htbmByMhcaN3khgm43ccCsvIty338S6LTz12hKYK1iPoFewfbm45t1vVXmA/s1600/Memory+Lane.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<span class="sqq">“<a class="sqq" href="http://thinkexist.com/quotation/death_is_not_the_greatest_loss_in_life-the/217097.html">Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside us while we live.</a>” Norman Cousins</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="sqq"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="sqq">When I was 25 years old I found a lump on my neck. I was on state aid for health insurance after leaving my first husband. I had never been on state aid before, nor since, but thank goodness I was on it then. I went to the one doctor that was still taking state aid (aka "welfare"), the Astoria infamous Dr. Patrick. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="sqq"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="sqq">Dr. Patrick diagnosed it as a "cyst" and said that if he found it on his wife he wouldn't even bother biopsying it, however, since I was a patient with a history of cysts he should do a biopsy and the date for the minor operation was set for the week before Thanksgiving, 1985. Because of the location of the cyst, just below my collar bone, a needle biopsy wasn't feasible. The surgery had to take place at the Long Beach Hospital because Patrick had lost his Columbia Memorial Hospital privileges.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="sqq"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="sqq">After the surgery Patrick told us that the cyst had been wrapped around my collarbone and was a bit bigger mass than he had anticipated but did not appear to be cancerous. He did remove the whole cyst and sent off a piece of it to the Seattle lab to be tested. I spent Thanksgiving with my neck swathed in bandages, grimacing about the three or so stitches in my neck. Little did I know what I would be dealing with by Christmas time.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="sqq"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="sqq">On December 6th I went in to Dr. Patrick to find out the results of the biopsy on the cyst. The nurse was very kind when I went in. I remember she patted my arm and asked if I had come alone. I laughed and said told her bringing my two and four year olds along would not have been conducive to being able to listen to the Doctor's report. She said, "Oh dear, you have children?" I thought that was an odd reply. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="sqq"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="sqq">Dr. Patrick came into the room and got right down to business. He asked me if I had been tired lately and if I had been losing weight. I told him I was the mother of a toddler and pre-school child and was on a (perpetual) diet so yes, and yes. He then said, "The biopsy on your tumor came back, it is malignant." I remember there being total silence at that point. It was one of those moments that your mind says, "This does not compute." </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="sqq"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="sqq">"But I didn't have a tumor, I had a cyst. This is some other patient's chart you are reading," I argued to Patrick. "Remember, I had the CYST in the NECK," I said, emphasizing the words and pointing to my neck.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="sqq">Dr. Patrick shook his head. "It was a tumor, and it was malignant. We are going to have to do a series of tests to find out how far it has spread. First off we will have to ....." his words trailed away to my hearing. I remember nodding my head. He asked if I was okay, I said yes. His nurse asked if she should call someone, I said no. He asked if I understood, I said yes. Then he said good-bye and left the room. I put on my coat and walked out to the lobby where the receptionist handed me a list of appointments in Portland for the following week. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="sqq">I drove in a daze to City Transfer & Storage, which my parents owned at that time. My dad was on the roof, no recollection why now, and he hollered down to me, "Everything ok?" making a thumbs up signal. I signaled, thumbs down, "Very bad news" I hollered back up. We did not see him again for hours.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="sqq">My mother looked up from the phone and saw that something was badly wrong. She said I looked completely dumbfounded. "What's the matter? What's the matter?" I finally answered, "He says I have cancer." I love her answer. To this day it is a quote our family uses, "By whose authority did he tell you that?" Even at that time it brought a chuckle to my lips. That is my mother. By whose authority did a doctor tell me that I had cancer? Certainly not by Her authority!</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="sqq">"Give me THAT man's phone number!" my mother demanded. I gave it to her and within moments she was on the phone to him. Forget HEPA, albeit it was long before those privacy laws. I heard her say she wanted a second opinion and then heard her say, "Oh." </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="sqq">All of December was spent running from one appointment to the next. At one place veins in the top of my feet were accessed and dye was pumped in from there for a lymphangiogram. I still have the scars as Dr. Patrick forgot that had been done and had to tear some skin to get to the stitches to take them out. I had a bone marrow tap to see if the cancer was inside my bones. I vividly remember the hammering on my hips. Sometimes I ache there. My grandmother would say it was my sciatica acting up. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="sqq"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="sqq">A week before Christmas I entered Long Beach Hospital once again. This time was for the big operation, a staging laparotomy, to take biopsies of all my major organs, to take a "look see" and ensure that the cancer was not hiding anywhere else. At this time Patrick was supposed to have moved my ovaries over so they would be out of the way of the radiation treatments that were to come. By now Dr. Holladay was my oncologist and he was supposedly telling Dr. Patrick how to proceed, as the surgeon. Later I found out that Holladay and Patrick were fighting (surprise, surprise) and that Patrick did not see a need for radiation to be done on the lower mantle while Holladay was plotting a course of full mantle radiation. Because Patrick did not think a full mantle was needed he did not move my ovaries over, according to him. I often have thought that Patrick neglected to move my ovaries over and subsequently developed the theory that a full mantle was not needed.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="sqq"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="sqq">The full biopsy was done, my spleen was removed as was my appendix since both were supposedly areas which cancer can hide. I was ripped from my breast bone to my pelvic bone and stapled closed. I looked like a xylophone. I had to hold a pillow over my stomach to cough or laugh. When I came to after the operation I remember my mother sitting there and looking over at her and asking, "Did he say anything?" She shook her head. My mother wanted me home for Christmas, she NEEDED me home for Christmas. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="sqq"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="sqq">The doctor came in later that evening and my mother asked if I would be home in time for Christmas. Patrick replied that he was waiting for the reports to come back from the labs. If any more cancer were found he was going in immediately to remove it, therefore, it was unknown if I would be home in time for Christmas. "At this point we need to take it day by day." </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="sqq"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="sqq">We already knew that the cancer had spread to the upper part of my right lung. Where it was at and how much further had it gone would determine the type and stage it was at and the course of therapy I would take to combat it. The long days ticked by. I began to hate that hospital. One month earlier I had been oblivious to the "fact" that I was ill with the big "C" word. I was playing with my two babies, bitching about my ex, anxious about making rent. I longed for those days, gone forever.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="sqq"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="sqq">Before Cancer (BC) I hated shots, loathed needles. When I was young it literally took four nurses to hold me down, one for each limb, and a fifth to administer the shot. Even as I grew older I avoided shots for as long as possible. As a sophomore in high school I was suspended from school until I received some sort of shot that was required. Between December 6th and the 22nd I had been stuck so many times I no longer even flinched when the needle came out. During the following months of blood withdraws the only time I protested was when I was asked if I minded if a student nurse practiced on me. Oh, hell yeah, I minded. By that time my veins had shrunk down to almost nothing and finding one to prick was process of trial and elimination. One time a student nurse stuck me five times and as he was going for his sixth I told him if he touched me again I would have to punch him. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="sqq"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="sqq">So, Christmas crept up on us and the hospital halls filled with holiday cheer, which stopped just outside of my door. Everyday a man dressed as Santa Claus would poke his head inside my door and say, "Hohoho!" and I would roll over in my bed, and squeeze out some tears. Each day my mother would ask Dr. Patrick if he thought I could go home and each day he would reply, "Not today." My mother would say that we need to make plans and finally Dr. Patrick told her she just shouldn't. "Just enjoy today," he told us, frankly and with one of those half smiles that said, "take it on the chin" and "keep your head up!" My mother and I quit planning my future on that day. We didn't start planning it again until I got married over six years later.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="sqq"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="sqq"> On the fourth day of my interment at the hospital the jolly red man stuck his head in the door and said his usual, "Ho-ho-ho!" and this time for variety added, "Do you know who I am?" I was thinking that he wanted me to guess who he was in real life, under the fake beard, false nose and red cap so I replied, "No, I am not from around here," and this red idiot replied, "Why, I'm Santa Claus!" I tried to get out of bed so I could strangle him. As she held me down my mother told him, "Go, go, go!" and his head quickly disappeared out of the doorway. She collapsed onto the bed laughing while I finally wrestled one of the pillows loose and flung it at the door, stretching and pulling at my zippered stomach and launching me into a bout of pain. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="sqq"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="sqq">Later that day I was rewarded for my petty meanness to the poor volunteer. I was finally taken off of the IV bottle and allowed my first "real food" in the form of a liquid diet. I was to have soup for lunch with jello, and, at long last, coffee. In anticipation I took the lid off of my soup and greeting me was the stench of cream of broccoli soup! I literally started retching, which caused my stomach to convulse, which of course racked me with pain! Through tears I called my mother, "Cream of Broccoli," was all I could wail into the phone. "What," my mother asked over and over again. "Cream of broccoli, that's what they are trying to feed me! Who does that to someone who hasn't eaten for four days?" I sobbed into the phone. I imagined my mother was silently crying with me. Much later I found out she was laughing so hard she had dropped the phone! A lot of sympathy this woman has. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="sqq"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="sqq">The day before Christmas Dr. Patrick came in to tell us the news. All the biopsy's had come back. I had Hodgkins' Lymphoma. In late 1985 the survival rate prognosis was good, for the first five years. After that, chances of the Hodgkins coming back increased. Because of this after the course of treatment was taken, and if I joined the approximately 85% of those who responded well to the treatment, I would go into what was considered "remission". After 15 years of being in "remission" I could be considered "cured" and I would have just as much a chance of getting HD as anyone else. Supposedly. According to statistics. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="sqq">Thank God, literally, 22 years later and no cancer. This time of year, while it is a time of family togetherness and enjoying all of the holidays of so many religions, for me is also a time of remembrance. A time when so much was thought lost, when each day was a bonus. Not often enough, I remember that time again. Each day is the only day that I know I have to make a difference. Tomorrow may never happen. </span></div>CBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608603962532054186noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34961842.post-57281742180051808052010-11-18T04:30:00.000-08:002010-11-18T09:57:22.990-08:00Fun With Parkinsons<div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM35m5swcFuRQlj-PHPIbC3AjdFqj7I8z53TQAQonT7dU2bKwZR5oByqCsy0uP3JGwZ6AzXw1InoaxGGgHd7d4rYV76XHDy4xiH5aWAZ1R33-6YJLHN3lN9Wu1BAI2MiRp9SaNvg/s1600/scaryface.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM35m5swcFuRQlj-PHPIbC3AjdFqj7I8z53TQAQonT7dU2bKwZR5oByqCsy0uP3JGwZ6AzXw1InoaxGGgHd7d4rYV76XHDy4xiH5aWAZ1R33-6YJLHN3lN9Wu1BAI2MiRp9SaNvg/s1600/scaryface.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Before I begin I would like to remind everyone that I have written many a passionate piece on Parkinsons. On NCO we even have a whole section devoted to Parkinsons. But, there are times when you just have to laugh and roll with the punches. This is about one of those times.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Over this past week my dad has been getting used to a new medication. His doctor loves to tweak meds so that Dad will "operate at his optimum." In this doctor's mind everyone has something that they are dealing with and everyone should be able to operate at their optimum for as long as possible. Dad agrees with this philosophy and they get along great. That being said, there are still the times when getting used to a new med and finding the right dose can knock him for a loop. A dose of laughter is much better during these times than a dose of tears.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Dad came out of his room looking rough for the wear one morning in the not-so-distant past. Hair disheveled and no teeth in, he looked about 20 years older than his current age. After we exchanged morning pleasantries I asked him what was going on and he said that he had had a sleepless night. He had to speak very slow and deliberate because, along with the Parkinson soft speech, without his teeth his words were slurred and sort of slushy. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">He told me that to keep himself entertained he had watched infomercials and he was a little ticked off at the lack of courtesy that many of the phone operators had. He had first watched an infomercial on the "miracle" <a href="http://www.heatsurge.com/" target="_blank">Heat Surge Roll-n-Glow Electric Fireplace</a> touted as an "Amish" heater. After listening to half the program Dad was convinced he had to have it. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">First, he tried to memorize the phone number that kept flashing on screen but each time he went to dial it he would forget some part or another. He finally hunted up pen and paper and quickly jotted the number down. He went to dial and found that the problem wasn't just with remembering the number it was with seeing the keypad digits. While he had written the number down nice and large he couldn't read the numbers on his cell phone. Try as he might he couldn't find his glasses. Finally, he decided to "fake it" and dial by the numbers as he "remembered them" on the key pad. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">After a couple of wrong numbers (where he is pretty sure he didn't order anything) he finally got through to "those heater people". According to Dad, the person answering the phone asked what they could do to help him. He said that he told them he had some questions about the heater but since it had taken so long to get a hold of them he had to think for a moment. The heater person didn't want to wait a moment. She wanted Dad to order, so she told Dad he should just order now and if he didn't like the product he could return it for a money back guarantee. Of course minus shipping, handling, and a restocking fee. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;">My Dad remembered his question and asked if someone with Parkinsons could pull the heater room to room. The lady asked him if he could walk. That ticked him off. Of course he could walk, it wouldn't do much good to ask if he could pull something if he couldn't walk. The lady said if he could pull it, the heater would follow. Dad asked if it ran on batteries if the power went out. No, no batteries if the power went out. Would it run off the generator? It runs on 110, if the generator puts out 110 then the heater can run on it. Now, does he want to order or not? He thinks he does. So she asks him his credit card number. Uh-huh, no way is my dad giving his credit card number over the phone to a total stranger, he's seen all the warnings about giving out private info over the phone and he won't be giving her his address or phone number, either. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">At this point the woman started getting frustrated. How did Dad think he was going to pay for it if he wasn't going to give out billing information and where were they going to send the heater if he wasn't going to give out that info? My Dad then informed her he didn't even need one of the damn heaters because we had a wood stove and plenty of wood, so there. And then he asked her to quit calling him! </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> I was laughing so hard by the time he finished this story. He told it so perfectly w/o his teeth in and animated with indignation that the infomercial operator had tried to get personal information from him. In the light of day he was laughing, too. He had no idea how that heater was supposed to make it to our house if he didn't give out any information to get it here. He had no idea why he thought he needed one since we had a wood stove. He thinks he was just in love with the idea of having one. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">His night wasn't over. He flipped the channels until he came across a money maker. I am not quite sure which one this one is. I am sort of thinking he either watched two infomercials one right after the other and didn't notice when one ended and the other began or maybe flipping between the two got them confused. Either way he said,"its the infomercial where the guy says the government doesn't want anyone to know his secrets but he's going to share them anyways, for free, for the first [mumble] people that called." Dad wasn't sure what number the guy had "mumbled". </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> The infomercial went on to state that for just 20 minutes of work a day anyone could make a minimum of $1,000 dollars a week, just by following a few simple steps, establishing your own network of leads and working right from your own home. Dad wasn't sure what that meant exactly but even on his worst Parkinson days he knew he was up to 20 minutes a day of work. He thought the leads might mean some detective work, which appealed to him. I told him I thought it had more to do with real estate and calling people, which might be why the person that answered the phone when Dad called them was less then encouraging.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Dad was telling me the story, basically, in the same state that he did the phone call. Mainly, talking with a hushed voice and very slushy, w/o his teeth. After another few misdials Dad get's through to the infomercial operators and tells the person he is interested in taking advantage of the financial offer. "What?" the operator asks. Dad repeats himself. The operator says he has no idea what Dad is saying. Did Dad want to purchase the program. No, Dad says. He wants the financial offer which was totally free. "What?" the operator asks again. Dad is getting a little ticked off now. Very slowly he says he wants the FREE program being offered to the first callers. He speaks so slowly the operator asks him if he is drunk. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"I am not drunk I have Parkinsons" my father attempted to yell into the phone. The person told him to calm down and was he sure he could go through with the program? Dad affirmed that he could and the person again asked him for his credit card. My father refused and said he wanted the FREE program. "What?" the operator asked, again. Then, according to my father, the operator told him he was impossible to understand and he thought he was drunk and should go sleep it off and hung up on him! </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Dad was laughing by then at how ridiculous it was that he wanted the program so bad he was thinking of putting his teeth in and calling back with his credit card number. First one place he refuses to give out his credit card and then the next place he is begging them to take his credit card number, and he doesn't even know what they need it for at that place, but, apparently, playing hard to get with my dad was the way to lure him to give up that credit card number. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I think the next time one of those annoying telemarketers call I am putting Dad on to handle it He can have fun, we can have entertainment and they really deserve it! </div>CBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608603962532054186noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34961842.post-84169205316534519482010-11-17T04:35:00.000-08:002010-11-17T21:36:06.313-08:00I want new neighbors (aka Is it blogging if you are talking about an FB game?)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNUtpqwrIP85b3ZhrWq9y_i6HIkTEBmzWH68l6-l9Q3Uki9vH49hDLt7qrz6eh3JoNvJ-uKEq4mp3yuLcqF3T4WknAoLwYWWzlQg8LGTn3m5cBDlvf21S5oaKPJt9Fus9qoj63gA/s1600/FrontiervilleJack2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNUtpqwrIP85b3ZhrWq9y_i6HIkTEBmzWH68l6-l9Q3Uki9vH49hDLt7qrz6eh3JoNvJ-uKEq4mp3yuLcqF3T4WknAoLwYWWzlQg8LGTn3m5cBDlvf21S5oaKPJt9Fus9qoj63gA/s1600/FrontiervilleJack2.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuZxEI291weVWqo9tV9EgF96aVyjcZR_UbHMUqRCly-NkE8UB8D3sqN_Z5lpXnvJPIQnSyjEXELMqOCiDtwVtycC41lh4gTghAUJDRJlbJxpYdlF5AY6463hFfMiYSgqYfZcDWgw/s1600/FrontiervilleJack.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Okay, so what gives? I plow my fields, plant my crops and gift <span style="font-family: Georgia;">ALL</span><b> </b>of my neighbors and only, like, three of them bother to reciprocate. I don't even expect gifts every day because I don't visit every day. I don't. Days and days can go by without me checking ... my withering crops... but I digress. I haven't seen half of my neighbors in almost a month! I go to visit their farm to see if their crops are wilting, some indication that they haven't been tending their plots, and is there? Nooooo, nothing's wilting, no weeds growing. Their crops are in, animals fed, and ... and ... <span style="font-family: Georgia;">they-are-all</span> building ANOTHER shop.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Sure, I wish I could build another shop, but I can't. Wanna know why I can't? I can't because no one will gift me any lousy dang items I <span style="font-family: Georgia;">NEED</span> to complete the stupid, stupid, shop. Fine, I will just work on my Frontierville layout, because, after all, this is <b>my ZEN time</b>.<br />
<br />
Peace, breathe in, breathe out.<br />
<br />
Put that path there, that cabin there. Get cobblestone sidewalk, lay it there through the muddy field and to the <span style="font-family: Georgia;">half-built</span> lodge and <span style="font-family: Georgia;">half-built</span> dress shop so none of my "generous" neighbors gets their clod hopping feet all muddy.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">NO, you friggin, pop-up, old geezer, I <span style="font-family: Georgia;">don't</span> want to invite all my "friends" from Farmville over to Frontierville. Why do you think I left Farmville and all those friends <span style="font-family: Georgia;">be-hind</span>? Because they quit gifting me, they just took, took, took! And the missions got longer, stupider and more complicated and when I went and visited my so-called neighbors, <span style="font-family: Georgia;">all</span> of them had all these buildings that the ONLY way they could have got was if they bought them. I will never pay a real cent for these games. They want $8 for 75 golden horseshoes. I <span style="font-family: Georgia;">know</span> last week they were offering 75 horseshoes for $6. Like I would be so dumb to grab it up at $8? Who spends money on these stupid games? This is <b>my ZEN time</b>.<br />
<br />
Peace, breathe in, breathe out. Delete the old geezer -I wonder if I can block him on my privacy setting?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">What? Do I want to WHAT? Do I want to send all of my neighbors a gift of energy? GOOD GRIEF! No, I don't want to send those bunch of greedy son-of-beepers a gift of energy. They'll send me a cheap gift of energy back and I don't want a cheap gift of energy (which I can buy myself). I want pegs for my lodge, or hangers for my dress shop, or bricks for my shop upgrade. I want someone to plant a gosh-bleeping sunflower and let it wither so I can <span style="font-family: Georgia;">finally</span> finish this mission that has been on my screen for the last <span georgia="">four weeks</span>and I can go on to the next one!<br />
<br />
What do you mean, 'what am I doing yelling at the damn computer,' <span style="font-family: Georgia;">Hun-ney?</span> What does it LOOK-LIKE-I-AM-DOING? I AM RELAXING THIS IS <b>MY ZEN TIME</b>.<br />
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Peace. breathe in, breathe out. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">You know, if I -just this once- actually purchase some golden horseshoes, I can buy all the materials that I need and I won't have to be at the mercy of my neighbors for their "gifts." If I just do it this once: I won't expand my land any further; I won't build any more shops; I will just enjoy rearranging the property that I have and then I can really enjoy <b>my ZEN time</b> with this game. Just this once. Know one will know.<br />
<br />
NO I DON'T WANT TO SHARE THIS WITH MY NEIGHBORS!<br />
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Peace. Breathe in, breathe out.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">For the life of me I can't figure out why Tom Freel un-neighbored me. Oh, well .... Ohmmmmm, Ohhhhhhmm, OoooZyyyyngggga. Zyyyyynnngggggaaaaa. </div>CBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608603962532054186noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34961842.post-10733200725383562232010-11-16T13:52:00.000-08:002010-11-16T16:00:34.067-08:00Blogging Needs To Make A Come Back<div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6ZntFzU1tW8x5_Dd0EOkkTs7hXJ6MJOsB9cUsbFu5Pw1sp2x1OsQKoCfYWG7DYoBtjbyBIsQ9YInswEF3T2HzU32Ld-qf1ryqlk3ja_6iA4bOUGvyl1YUxjevme6ZYSpqdetJTA/s1600/Booger+Blogger.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6ZntFzU1tW8x5_Dd0EOkkTs7hXJ6MJOsB9cUsbFu5Pw1sp2x1OsQKoCfYWG7DYoBtjbyBIsQ9YInswEF3T2HzU32Ld-qf1ryqlk3ja_6iA4bOUGvyl1YUxjevme6ZYSpqdetJTA/s1600/Booger+Blogger.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<justify>Yes, it NEEDS to. I think few people realize how the recent history of Clatsop County may have been different if someone had not quit blogging. I was following a blogger about sixish years ago and enjoying her outlook on life quite a bit. While I didn't always agree with her I found her to be reasonably intelligent and very encouraging to another young blogger who was starting out on his own venture with a opinion and commentary blog.<br />
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I found that I looked forward to her posts and news of her spouse. Then, one day, either a picture appeared or someone made a comment on one of her posts and I realized who she was and who her husband was. I was stunned. Totally, completely, stunned. I had to admit to myself that I liked these people. And so, I continued to read.<br />
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As the months went by I began to see the person that I had glimpsed in the past. The person who doesn't get her/his way, the wrath and temper tantrums thrown. The revenge lust. A part of me still admired her for being "brave" enough to let others see her at her "worst". Little did I know then.<br />
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Suddenly, she quit writing. No more stories showing a compassionate side to this duo. No more glimpses into the lives of people who, allegedly, wanted to do good in this community that they had adopted. Those of us readers not blessed with an invitation into the inner circle were left out in the cold to wonder if the blog had merely been a ploy, one more tool in the bag of deceit? <br />
<br />
I do wonder what we would have done if she had kept writing, if we had still been reading that blog, seeing a few main players in a different light?<br />
<br />
A <a href="http://astoria-rust.blogspot.com/2010/11/where-have-all-bloggers-gone.html">Rusty Blogger </a>ponders whether or not Facebook took the bloggers away. He may be right. Facebook is a safer place to play. If one doesn't feel like writing one knows that each person reading has 200-1000 other friends that will fill the void. Very rarely is a truly serious thought pondered, much less discussed. I go there to relax, for the most part. I very lazily check in on family and their photos and make a comment. No need to call that person for at least a month, I just LOL'd the cute picture of their dog dressed up as Tinkerbell. <br />
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Facebook is candy for my mind. I go there to get the latest update on the Baha'is in Iran, click on link to protest this, endorse that, like, dislike, ROTFLMAO and to online chat with a brother in Japan, a friend in Haifa, family in DR. Its my Zen garden. <br />
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Facebook has its place. But just as blogging cannot take the place of a personal journal, FB cannot take the place of a blog. When is the last time anyone scrolled back to see what Ricky said last week? Never. When have I scrolled back to see what my Rusty guy or *G* said a month or a year ago? More often than never!<br />
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Blogging takes courage, especially when you don't delete archives and right there in front of everyone you have to eat crow. You allow people watch your thoughts change over the passage of time. You share as you become passionate about something, how it waxes and wanes until it suddenly is no longer a part of your life. You try to be ever so careful of not impinging on the lives of loved ones, all the while they are the fodder for the grist mill. Your fingers itching to scratch the words just spoken out on the smooth, empty, blog blotter. How many movies and sitcoms, at the end of a marital spat, have used the line, "Don't put this in your blog!" ala Julie & Julia?<br />
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The blog has had too short a run, it is not time to see it go. A come back is needed. At the very least, a long curtain call. <br />
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Now, post this to your Facebook wall. Most Facebook members won't have the courage to post this to their wall but a few Facebook members will have the courage and those that do will be remembered and those that don't, Santa Clause IS watching, ROTFLMAO!</justify></div>CBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608603962532054186noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34961842.post-68790396576388990652010-08-22T18:08:00.000-07:002010-08-21T20:06:12.123-07:00Will A Religious Center Consecrate or Desecrate America?<div style="text-align: justify;">What makes a country great, what makes our country great, and one of the greatest on earth, is not that our laws allow us to do but what we will fight to allow others to do, even if it is something we, ourselves, do not necessarily believe or support. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
What many of my "liberal" friends never got, when I began writing on the LNG issue, is that regardless of what I myself believed, everyone deserved to hear the truth and deserved to hear both sides of the issue. Everyone deserved to hear what the real issues were and from there determine whether or not they wished to pay the consequences for higher or lower energy bills. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I went from being labeled a far left liberal, homeschooling my children brainwashing them so they'd never fit into mainstream business, to being labeled a far right conservative. A sell out to the big corporations and in the back pocket of this, that or the other person or corporation, etc., ad nauseum.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The fact of the matter is that what makes what you believe so great is the fact that you have the freedom to believe it. If what you believe influences people around you, changes others lives, has a bearing on how others earn a living, pay for education, feel about themselves, hopefully you have given careful thought and consideration to what you believe. Hopefully, you have studied the pros and cons of what you believe. Hopefully, each of us has enough integrity to change our beliefs if we discover what we believe was based on "misinformation" or simply, the more we find out the more our beliefs change. Sometimes the base of what we believe stays the same and we just become more knowledgeable about it, other times our belief changes, completely.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Regardless of whether or not we change a belief, what makes us great as individuals is when we fight, when we defend, the rights of someone we do not agree with to speak out, to actions, to freedoms, we ourselves do not necessarily agree with. It is this that makes us, collectively, a great nation. This is the reason so many wept, around the world, when our towers were hit September 11th. More than dreaming of our material riches they dream of the day when they can speak, can live, openly and with no fear of retaliation with a collective nation of people who, unabashedly, will come to their defense if the need should arise even if they do not have the same belief because beyond the individual beliefs is the unifying conviction that humans should be free to find their belief, not have it forced on them. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">We have limped here. In many places around our country we are here in the name of some laws, only. Our justice system lags far behind even those. It is only when we, individually, and collectively, open our mouths, stand firm with our feet, and say, "I do not believe as you do, but I will defend to my death your right to believe it" that our country has a hope of becoming that which we yearn in our hearts for it to be. For that which, world wide, others already know it to be. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I know Keith Olbermann is considered by many a liberal, maybe even far left, who has evolved from a sports commentator to a political pundit in an ongoing feud with Fox's Bill O'Reilly. I trust, by now, you know I don't pick people by what their politics are, I chose to listen if the idea they are conveying is sound and their research is solid. On the issue of the supposed Muslim Mosque allegedly to be built at "ground zero" I find Mr. Olbermann's remarks well worth listening to. </div><br />
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<br />
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<div style="text-align: justify;">We cannot expect to call ourselves free and great and think we will not be tested. How just or fair would that be? Our belief in the Torah, the Bible, the Quran, the Kitab-i-Aqdas, or an Atheist manifesto means nothing if it is the only book we are allowed to believe in, the only book our country protects. We are better than that our beliefs and convictions run deeper.<br />
<br />
From Lincoln's Gettysburg address:<br />
Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal. <br />
Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation, so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.<br />
But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate, we can not consecrate, we can not hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us—that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion—that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain—that this nation shall have a new birth of freedom—and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth. (<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>From the Nicolay copy of the Gettysburg Address, on permanent display as part of the American Treasures exhibition of the Library of Congress in Washington, D.C.)</i></span><br />
<br />
Interestingly, public reaction to the speech was divided along partisan lines. The next day the <a href="http://teachingamericanhistory.org/library/index.asp?document=1721">Democratic-leaning newspaper, the Chicago Times</a>, commented, "The cheek of every American must tingle with shame as he reads the silly, flat and dishwatery utterances of the man who has to be pointed out to intelligent foreigners as the President of the United States." In contrast, the Republican-oriented <a href="http://query.nytimes.com/mem/archive-free/pdf?_r=2&res=9B06E1DD1F3BE63BBC4851DFB7678388679FDE&oref=slogin"><i>New York Times</i> was complimentary.</a><sup class="reference" id="cite_ref-NYT_16-2"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gettysburg_Address#cite_note-NYT-16"><span></span><span></span></a></sup>The newspaper printed the entire speech, calling it "a perfect gem" that was "deep in feeling, compact in thought and expression, and tasteful and elegant in every word and comma." The Republican predicted that Lincoln's brief remarks would "repay further study as the model speech." <br />
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<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gettysburg_Address#cite_note-49"><span></span></a> </div>CBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608603962532054186noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34961842.post-28277817205935168922010-08-10T03:57:00.000-07:002010-08-11T17:05:00.427-07:00Wait for It!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.softball-spot.com/wp-includes/images/softball-score.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.softball-spot.com/wp-includes/images/softball-score.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I spent most of my teen years either on the ball field or in the gym. Yeah, I know, to look at me now you would hardly know it, but would it help if you knew I spent most of my time as a coach? I coached my first team when I was 13 years old. The Parks & Recreation director back then was Fred Lindstrom and his assistant was Kent Rice. After him was Nancy and I am very ashamed that her name has flown right out of my head as Nancy let me use her apartment on numerous occasions for slumber parties and there's not much more that teen girls could ask for than a woman in her mid-twenties with an apartment she's willing to loan out for slumber parties!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">As a coach of a ball team you spend 90% of your time doing drills, repetitively hitting balls to the kids. Infield flies, outfield flies, grounders, hoppers, chest thumpers, line drives, flubbers, pop ups, dribblers, and so forth. You learn real quick that the kids start getting antsy, and bad things happen when kids are antsy, if you don't hit around the field quickly, peppering each location with three or four balls for those kids to chase while you move on to the next area, all the while keeping your eye on a dozen and a half 40" kids, swarming about, making sure one of your line drives don't nail them in the noggin.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">One year Cindy Marincovich was pitching and she could throw hard! Man, that girl had an arm on her but the problem was she didn't have much control until her arm got tired. At practices I would have her pitch to me, instead of doing my usual toss up and swing, just to get her arm worn out a bit before she pitched to the girls. I was looking out at the field, determining where I was going to place my hit, when Cindy wound up and sent a zinger, wildly, straight at me. I tried dunking but it got me right in the chest and knocked me on my butt. I saw stars and literally was gasping for air. Cindy was yelling, "I'm sorry, sorry, sorry," so loud my dad came running down from where we lived on Pleasant Ave to the Gray School field to see what Cindy was so sorry about. I had the stitches outline from the softball on my chest for two or three days, I kid you not. Cindy still apologizes for it!<br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;">At the age of thirteen the hardest part of coaching was learning how to throw the ball up and hit it out to the kids. It takes a lot of eye hand coordination. Packman had barely come out on the market so it wasn't like there was a lot of opportunity for eye-hand coordination training in those days. It took a lot of time, patience and continual practicing. Over and over again against the garage door with a tennis ball until I had it down pretty darn good and could hit the ball 3 out of 5 times, then 7 out of 10 times and finally 19 out of 20 times, consistently. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Next, I worked on placing the hit exactly where I wanted the ball to go. It got to the point that I could, finally, take my eye off the ball and be looking out at the field, the opposite field, of where I intended to hit the ball. I should say it appeared that I took my eye off the ball, I was always aware of where the ball was at. I wanted the kids to look at body, to read the language of my hips, of my front leg, the tell-tale signals a batter gives indicating where they are going to hit, most of them not even realizing they are giving those signals. I didn't just want my infield reading those signals, I needed my outfield to be just as alert. Every time the ball was hit my whole team moved. The only time there was a reprieve was when our pitcher struck someone out. Even on a walk I wanted everyone to be ready for a steal. I hated using deep right as a hidey-hole for the least talented. In my book the right fielder needed to back-up first base, not be out deep playing with butterflies. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I coached softball, baseball, and basketball for a total of 27 seasons from the time I was 13 until I was 25, coaching up to the time I found out I had Hodgkins Disease. During that time I also refereed and umpired. I thoroughly enjoyed coaching and thoroughly despised officiating. Parents are very nasty when you call Suzy out for running the bases out of sequence or when there is only one ump for a game (you) and no, you aren't going to "get off your lazy ass and hustle out to second base and then back to home plate" in order to be on top of BOTH of those calls for a game for FOURTH GRADERS!<br />
<br />
I expelled from the field some very, very notable locals who felt that it was appropriate to scream profanities regarding the possibilities that my birth was not legally recognized or that I may not be human but perhaps a female canine and I do believe that the first time I heard THE "EF" WORD aimed directly at me was at the age of 14, at Gray Field and by a prominent member of society. I immediately stopped the game, told the team that the woman either left the field or they forfeited. It was the second to the last game of the season and the team was on their way to the championships. The parents yelled at the woman to LEAVE and, she was the team's coach! After hearing what happened the next day Fred suggested to the woman that she resign as coach and the woman agreed. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I miss Fred Lindstrom, terribly. One of the nicest, kindest, best kind of guys to have working for a community and an honor to have as your friend. The park on Niagara is named in memory of him. I really wish they would pick another one cause everyone calls it Peter Pan Park. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I learned a lot coaching. Much more than this short post can contain. Most of it I have used throughout life. Place hitting I could have used in high school softball when, finally, in my junior year, we got a girls softball team. The only problem there was I twisted my ankle and pulled a tendon playing flag football with the family (thanks Dad, now I'll never be a pro-softball player, drama) and was on crutches for almost three months that spring. I finally got to use those skills in the adult league slow-pitch.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
In slow pitch the most important thing is patience. You have to learn to wait for it, because if you wait for it it will come. THE PITCH, it is inevitable, that is what slow pitch is designed to do, give the batter a hitting chance and players a catching chance. I was a cocky player, but then again, we all were. I played for Chartroom Chuggers. Kind of cracks me up who was on the team. Two of the players are now on the "Keep Astoria Totally Quiet After 8 pm" neighborhood watch that shows up at Astoria City Council meetings to complain about loud trucks playing loud music driving up and down 16th street, "so fast that someone's going to get killed one of these days!" That really blew my mind. If I blink twice I would swear just day before yesterday it was her and I driving Terry's black pick-up down 16th St, flying over the hump on Irving with The Car's <i>Candy-o</i> baring out the windows. And how many people did we kill back then? Will, I guess I don't know about her but me? NADA!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> Anyhow, slow pitch, one fun thing to do was to point out where you were going to hit. You had to watch doing that. A good pitcher could mess you up pretty bad if you were too cocky about it, I learned that fast, much to my chagrin. I learned that, much like many other games, it was better if the opponent wasn't aware of your talent, if you didn't telegraph it to them, much less flaunt it. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Sometimes, however, it didn't hurt to let particular someones know that you do have a certain amount of advantage or a certain ability. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">A year after I had treatments for cancer and was declared "in remission" was a rough time for me. I was not with my current husband (although he will tell you now that he was keeping an anxious eye on me). I was dating someone else -who I later found out had been arrested for domestic violence- after a melodramatic break-up with someone I had dated off and on for 7 years (before and after first husband). I was playing for a co-ed softball team going by the name of "Mayhem". It was the final game of the tournament and we were fighting it out with the melodrama ex's team. I was out for blood. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I remember my current husband being in the stands, and I remember him, at one point, talking to someone on our bench. He tells me now that I had a huge strawberry on my thigh that was bleeding and he was very afraid I was doing a lot of damage to myself I was playing so intensely. He wanted someone on the team to pull me out of the game. They all laughed at him and told him if he didn't value his life why didn't he give it a try. Back then, mind you, I had been radiated right across my thyroid and was operating on no, nada, nyett, hormone replacement. I was having wild cycles of emotions, and, at the very young age of 26, going through menopause. I self-medicated with hops. During this game, I felt no pain.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">We were home team, down by one run, going into the bottom half of the last inning. We got one out right away. The next batter got a double and then I was up. There are a few times in life that everything lines up very nicely and although I had told myself not to do it when I got up to bat my ex hollered, "Come on guys, pull it in" and motioned for the outfield to move in, indicating I wasn't able to hit it any further. A few of them hesitated. He insisted they move in. He was playing rover (the 10th position in slow-pitch softball, between left field and center field) and he had moved all the way up to grass line of the infield and looked at me with a mocking grin. I looked at him and, of course, pointed my bat at him. He stepped into the infield. I took two pitches and I honestly have no idea if they were strikes or balls. The third pitch was the one I wanted, the one the pitcher had been throwing all evening on the third (or fourth) pitch, the one I was waiting for. I was standing as deep in the box as I could, I let my shoulder drop and I stepped into it just so, just so it would go, riiight abooout there. You usually don't want a fly ball to the outfield on a coed team if you are a girl because most of us can't hit it far enough to give runners a chance to advance before one of the guys catch it and throw the runner out. Even though the outfield is supposed to be gal-guy-gal-guy (or whatever, as long as it is every other) once the ball is in play guys can run around and be ball hogs and during championship games, yeah, that's what they are going to be.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
But this time all I had was open field. I really could have hit it to any of the fields but I knew the others were leery of the ex's decision to move in. I knew the ex was cocky sure I was too full of myself (and Schlitz) to hit it past him, especially when I pointed it straight at him. And I knew, if I waited for it, the pitch would come. It did. I hit it. It sailed, and sailed, and sailed ... right over the ex's pompous head. And he ran, and ran, and so did our runner on second and our runner on second made it home before the ex made it to the ball and I made it to first and didn't go any further because I didn't have to. And We Won (and I did to touch the bag, Martin Bue)!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">So, to all who have been wondering what the hell has been going on lately, all I can tell you for now is, wait for it.<br />
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<center><object height="385" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/YEkGqb2wu5k?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/YEkGqb2wu5k?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object></center> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div>CBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608603962532054186noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34961842.post-74455367990123108112010-07-04T04:00:00.000-07:002010-07-04T04:00:04.939-07:00Aroound the World, Freedom Comes At A High Price<object height="385" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/BwJ9CKlCc90&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/BwJ9CKlCc90&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br />
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A path chosen. Freedom, to believe what you wish to believe, to worship how you wish to worship, and to speak about it.CBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608603962532054186noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34961842.post-17035599982649566972010-06-24T01:36:00.000-07:002010-06-24T01:43:05.468-07:00Big Fat Greek Wedding Hawaiian StyleWhat a fantastic wedding! We live streamed it via Ustream, a live podcast. I posted it to facebook so all of our family and friends would know, but was in a hurry and didn't check to make sure that my post went through, wouldn't you know, facebook totally failed us! When we got back from the wedding there was a message from FB stating that it wanted to make sure I wasn't a robot and I needed to type in a bunch of letters to verify I was a human. And dang, it was a GREAT wedding! Trina came in on an outboard rigger! AND IT SANK, with her in it, and she kept on smiling! Hair not even disturbed a wisp, makeup perfect! You all would have loved it.<br />
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You can see the video <a href="http://twowingsrealitytv.blogspot.com/">here</a>. Please, enjoy. We will see you at the reception in July. Loves, hugs and kisses!<br />
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From all of us to all of you, Aloha!CBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608603962532054186noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34961842.post-45770872990719056382010-06-10T16:16:00.000-07:002010-06-10T16:16:00.820-07:00I Know I've Never Been Here Before<div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzqEIvqmFnAMXP_5GX7-GWUfVQOBLmGdmgcrlyBH-tOvijknMMG1XUZP6Xse7bWYNrOytqnfN5f4ifvMIzULOCz4V509H96CoOVNldJJHdmh6S459FB1h0YW-dEgmgTXsSAHknvA/s1600/cell+memory.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzqEIvqmFnAMXP_5GX7-GWUfVQOBLmGdmgcrlyBH-tOvijknMMG1XUZP6Xse7bWYNrOytqnfN5f4ifvMIzULOCz4V509H96CoOVNldJJHdmh6S459FB1h0YW-dEgmgTXsSAHknvA/s320/cell+memory.jpg" /></a></div><br />
I am intrigued with what we don't know about our own bodies. People talk about "old souls" and having lived "past lives". As a Baha'i, I have been taught that our soul came into being at the moment of conception. We are taught to "ponder" what that means. Baha'is have many different thoughts as to what it means, and it is a personal choice as to how to believe it. None of us can force our belief on the other. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">What it means to me is that our souls have never experienced human life before and will never do so again. There are many, many "worlds" of God (Most Great Being, whatever one chooses to call "The Divine It"), and to confine all of the mysteries of "being" to one place is incomprehensible to me. However, one cannot discount the "experiences" that people relate. How does one reconcile "science" when so many claim to have been Cleopatra? We have so many kings, queens and royalty, where are all of the soldiers and peasants?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Jean Auel's <a href="http://www.randomhouse.com/features/auel/webroot/index.html"><i>Earth's Children</i></a> series explored the idea that human beings had an instinctual/group memory that they have since repressed. Cellular memory is a theory that has been given a limited and cursory appraisal. I think that there is much more to it than the anecdotal stories of transplants donor parts imparting information of former owners feelings and memories.<br />
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In the Baha'i Faith Baha'u'llah states that fire changes the chemical composition of things and is a great destroyer. What was is lost, gone, destroyed. An arsonist is punished equally with a murder in Baha'u'llah's Book of Laws (Katab-i-Aqdas). I ponder this. Instead of our bodies naturally decaying, going "back" to the earth, fire quickly changes the body chemical completely, leaving nothing behind as it was. Nothing to remember? </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">One more clue, for me in this quest I have put to myself, a quote from 'Abdul-Baha, "All blessings are divine in origin but none can be compared with this power of intellectual investigation and research which is an eternal gift producing fruits of unending delight. Man is ever partaking of these fruits. All other blessings are temporary; this is an everlasting possession."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">A theory is shaping in my mind and if there is a name for this I would appreciate someone giving me a heads up. I am sure I am not the originator of this thought, I may have "picked it up" as reading one of kamillion books I have read or one of the kajillion stories I have edited. Either way, I am not claiming to be the originator of this theory. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">What if these "memories" that many are sure they are accessing are not coming from a previous life of the soul but a previous life of the body? Especially given that often, used for proof, is an imprint or physical marking of some sort on the body. What if each of us could access the "memory" of where each part of our body came from, however, because of the immaturity of our progress, at this stage in our development, very few of us know how to do that? I think there is another name for it than cellular theory. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Another thing that seems to me to be connected is that those who "eat right for their blood type" or for the region that their ancestry heralds from appear to be the healthiest (if they come from a healthy culture/heritage). To me this ties in with the Baha'i law that one is to be buried within one hour's travel time of where one dies. Most of us are born and die within one hour traveling time of one another. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Ghosts, hauntings, spooky houses? How about people who just plain give us the creeps or others, who for no reason, we find ourselves drawn to? Some how or another, I am convinced, that what we eat, drink, breath, absorb, we retain a memory/trace of and at some time we (royal "we" as in humankind) will be able to access that memory, at will.We are, comparatively and relatively speaking, a very young species. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">If I had the time, or rather the discipline and will power, I would write a fantasy series based on the precept of a group of people who access this collective, cellular memory. They use it to solve mysteries. Everything from fables of the supernatural to [their] present day crimes, such as murder. I am thinking more along the lines of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dune_%28franchise%29"><i>Dune</i></a> rather than Homer Simpson's Tree House of Horror 9. Although, now that I think about it I wonder if insanity has something to do with that (no, not this theory, but why some people are insane)? Is there a group of people, a place on earth that has the least amount of crime or is it that the social laws there are not as constrictive? Is there a place on earth where the whole community of people are not greedily acquiring and such behavior is seen as an aberration? </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Until then I ponder and research. Anyone who knows what I am looking for, feel free to give me a holler. You have a "memory" of something from a past that you know you didn't actually live but seem to have an acute (or dim) memory of participating in? If you don't mind seeing a form of it possibly appearing published, offer it up here (or send it to me in an email). </div>CBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608603962532054186noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34961842.post-67478297122651302042010-06-07T21:43:00.000-07:002010-06-07T23:02:05.916-07:00A Case of the Druthers<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeIKCs1FxOCZ_AdgJdABv_LEuKSe1dDleuKXWuubG531oNi4TaWCipa_u-YJNlW49YzwSc2CkiD2Zn2u55A9mU6zuK8Xts6IAKPgqVQpksIpFtb0-3eyhyphenhyphenCbHCfSJVeIhwwKD3-A/s1600/druthers1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeIKCs1FxOCZ_AdgJdABv_LEuKSe1dDleuKXWuubG531oNi4TaWCipa_u-YJNlW49YzwSc2CkiD2Zn2u55A9mU6zuK8Xts6IAKPgqVQpksIpFtb0-3eyhyphenhyphenCbHCfSJVeIhwwKD3-A/s320/druthers1.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">I've come down with a case of the druthers. </div><div style="text-align: justify;">I'd druther be ripping all of the weeds out of the hillside garden, than writing. </div><div style="text-align: justify;">I'd druther be placing large, beautiful, slabs of rock in pretty patterns, surrounded by small pea gravel, in my side yard, than writing.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I'd druther be building a wooden fence, to surround the rock patio, keeping out all of the bad and keeping in all of the good, than writing.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I'd druther be mortaring bricks together for a barbeque, to sit on the far end of the patio, overlooking the river, with a huge oval window next to it surrounded by lattice and ivy to block the sound of the noisy bridge, than writing.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I'd druther be planting herbs and flowers and trees in ceramic and ornate planters, and placing them all around the patio, even near the brick barbeque, than writing. </div><div style="text-align: justify;">I'd druther be bringing the hot tub down from storage, to sit on the pretty new patio, at the other end away from the brick barbeque, surrounded, too, by lattice and ivy, to keep out the noise, but open overhead to see the stars, to feel the rain, to catch snow flakes on the tongue next winter with grandchildren splashing in the water, than writing.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I'd druther unpack the patio furniture from their winter garb, to sit on the nice new patio, between the hot tub, and the brick barbeque, amidst the flowers, tress and herbs, possibly with a fake waterfall tinkling melodiously to mask the loud obnoxious sounds of cars running over the damn, tinny, steel bridge, than writing.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I'd druther be sitting in the hot tub, under the moon, listening to jazz, sipping perrier, with you, than writing.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I'd druther.</div>CBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10608603962532054186noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34961842.post-8478639441685444092010-02-24T04:30:00.000-08:002010-02-24T04:30:00.958-08:00Afternoon Delight ~ A New Beginning!<div style="text-align: justify;">Monday Hubby and I spent most of the late morning and early afternoon ... </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: justify;">... watching these two magnificent creatures enter into an intricate and beautiful mating ritual. They soared too swiftly for me to capture them in the air and whenever I put the camera into video mode there was too many human noises to capture their mating calls, which were lovely and beguiling.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">They would dance in the sky towards and away from one another and then, listening to some inner song throbbing through the blood of those belonging to the clan of the eagle, they meet and, as one, they turn and soar, twisting and rolling then suddenly plummeting only to swoop upwards once again. Swaying to and fro first in a waltz the next minute their antics could only be termed midflight break dancing when just as suddenly as it had started they would part and slowly circle away from one another. The whole while they call out to each other, speaking their own language of love, the cooing and whistles growing softer and softer.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The sunlight was so brilliant it was hard to look at the sky for too long and yet each time we dragged our eyes away, to give them a moment of reprieve from the glare, the eagles would once again begin their dance and our eyes would once again be pulled skyward.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Today, from far away, I heard the eagles calling to one another and I wonder if they are in their tree or hunting, or stealing some other predators kill. Eagles aren't known to greatly enjoy hunting for themselves, supposedly they would much rather take the kill of others. But we do not have bears, cougar nor wolves nearby for them to follow and pick up tidbits from. We have nutri, beaver, raccoon, skunk, coyote, chickens and other such farm critters. Our river is not known for its abundant fish but we are only a hop, skip from the Youngs Bay and the eagle nest may overlook it.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
It is funny at the same "expert" site it will say that the eagle is a scavenger bird and then will also note that salmon is a staple for the bird. After the fish has been caught by something else? When you watch salmon after they have spawned they are quite mushy, slow, dying. Quite easy to catch.<br />
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And yet, I have seen these birds pluck salmon out of the river and snap branches off a tree. I think the eagle is not so much a scavenger but an opportunist, one that has the tools and resources if it has to use them but chooses to clean up after everyone else instead. You don't see turkey buzzards plunging into the Columbia River, you see them at the side of the road looking for the opossum you hit last night because it has no choice. The regal eagle <i>chooses</i> to pick up the mess left behind. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Its all about perspective. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><span class="answerbag_vibrant"></span></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><span class="answerbag_vibrant"><br />
</span></i><span class="answerbag_vibrant">Today a third eagle flew above the two as they cooed at one another in their mating tree. After the storm of '07 we didn't know if the eagles would have a home to return to. It is nice to see that they have returned, year after year, and appear to bring children and grandchildren with them. According to many of the eagle "authority" sites eagles protect approximately one to two square air miles around their nests. Do eagles recognize their parents? Do they drive away their own? Who was the third eagle and why did none of the three seem alarmed? Did their mating distract two of them? Was the single eagle offspring come back to check on mom and dad? Or maybe it was a granddad come to check on the newlyweds? All we could tell was that all three were bald eagles meaning all were at least four or five years old (according to the "authorities"). </span></div><br />
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