My First Rant

Intrigued by the rant posts of others' blogs, I have decided to do my own rant.

I hate that:



I am so damn stubborn I waste hours, days and weeks on a line of thought that could easily be resolved by looking at it from someone else's point of view.



Eight times out of ten my husband, mother, father, child or grandchild is correct in the argument and I am, gulp, wrong.



I take an offense when none is intended, am offensive when I don't intend to be, try to offend and no one notices.


Am, apparently, able to write on multiple forums without any conscience knowledge of doing so.


Write my best pieces about an hour before I wake and forget them within three minutes of rising.


I most often forget to thank those who deserve to be thanked the most.


Generally forget to give more than I receive.


There are so many in this county who do so much more than I do to make this community a better place to live in. I should appreciate what they do, instead of griping about what they don't do.


So many living so very near by have so much less and I still consume too much, recycle too little, overspend and under save.


Whatever the December storm taught me, I have forgotten too soon.


In most people I dislike, I see some part of myself.

Hold Me 'Bika

The sound of an umbrella unfurling over my head wakens me. As my eyes peel open a little voice lisps, "'Amorning, 'Bika!" "Good morning baby, Allah-u-abha," I murmur back. I stare up at the umbrella. It is black with swirls of red through it, looking like waves of fire. He is twirling it over my head as he unsteadily settles next to me. It is a large umbrella, old fashioned with a wooden handle, and as one of the spokes plunges towards my eye I put my hand out to grab it. "How did he manage to get this into bed without gouging my eye out?" I think. "Baby, why do we have an umbrella in bed with us?" I inquire. "It maybes going to rain, I think," he says. His voice is fuzzy and I look over at him. His cheeks are very rosy and his normally sunny blue eyes are stormy gray. "How do you feel, baby boy?" "'Bika, I don't feel good. My back's mad at me. It's hurting me." "Can we close the umbrella?" I ask. "Oh, sure, sure!" he says. It's his new saying for the month. "Oh, sure, sure," and he pats the air reassuringly. I wonder which one of us he has picked that up from. Such a small baby boy, my grandson. What was it, day before yesterday when my baby boy was just as small?

"'Bika, can you hold me?" "Sure, sure," I say, not quite certain if I picked it up from him or vice-versa, at this point. He snuggles in next to me and lays his head on my chest. He is so warm. I rub his back. Yesterday my other baby, this one's twenty-four year old uncle, had stopped by to play a game. It was his day off and he had asked if him and I could spend some time together and play, "Axis and Allies." He hadn't had time for his old mom in quite a while so though I had a jazillion writing assignments to research and finish I knew these opportunities don't come often so I thought, "What can a little game hurt?" Nine hours later I told him I just didn't have it in me to try to defeat Japan and Germany any longer. Sorry, World War Two must end in a stalemate." He said he had grown tired of the game two hours earlier but thought I was enjoying it so didn't want to ruin my fun!

Throughout the whole game Kaden had to be entertained with various side games. We all play with his stuffed animals with him and use different voices so he is doing that now. As the day progressed he went from happy boy to grumpy boy to whiney boy. Then to quiet boy. That's when, "'Bika, hold me," became his mantra. "Can you hold me, now, 'Bika?" So I would take him up and roll dice or move my "army" with one hand while holding him to my chest, rocking and and making sushy noises. The older boy, who was this small it seems, what, just yesterday(?) and now could easily hold me, patiently explained for the hundredth time why I couldn't attack one of his countries since my planes weren't strong enough to fly back to safe territory. Men play by too many rules! No wonder they don't like women in wars. So, I say, my planes are kamikaze. He protests, You aren't Japan and kamikaze aren't in the rules, anyways. So, I say, my pilots have parachutes and they are meeting up with the Resistance after they bomb and bail out of their crippled planes. And he protests, Moooommmm! So, I say, Okay, okay! Sure, sure, have it your way.


"'Bika, can you hold me?" I look down into those eyes. I have stories that need to be completed. I have research that needs to be done. I look over at my son, who, just hours ago, was this tiny and small. "Yes, 'Bika can hold you baby." I scoop him up and hold him. Too soon he will be too big to hold. Too soon he won't have the time for me. Too soon, it will be tomorrow and the day after. I will take this moment in time and treasure it. "Yes, baby, yes, 'Bika can hold you."

Happy Birthday TH!

HARTILL Power

Tryan said “Being born was great for me,”
he couldn’t see how anyone could call it a chore.

And every year he’s pleased to see,
That it’s him we all adore.

He prances about shouting over dale and hill:

“Bloggers flock right and left to stay close to me;
They claim to know me well.
They’re proud to know a celebrity,
And gee, I know they’re swell,

They celebrate, they laugh and sing,
And gifts on me they shower.
I must have done a wondrous thing,
My birthday cries, HARTILL POWER!”

Requiem

Winter months of solitude bring thoughts of death. What might have been, what still might be, what was, was not, and won't.

I have prepared Muslim, Christian, and Baha'i mortal remains for their final resting place. Very few acts of service have I been allowed to do that have honored me more. I have been honored to be called mother, wife, daughter, sister, friend. Cousin, niece, aunt. I long to be called Baha'i, but that isn't really for here. It is what I call myself but if I will be called that only time will tell.


In preparing someone's loved one's remains for their final rest it is truly unbelievable the amount of trust they have in you and it is with a shock each time when I realize how much they wish to know that this last act is taken so solemnly, so carefully, and done so sacredly with love. Your hands are their hands, your eyes are theirs, your lips, theirs, as you chant the prayers they want said. Your ears theirs as you listen to the music they wish played and your minds eye theirs, too, as you see the life of "once was" passing softly as wisps from the smoke of candle wicks, sputtering in soft evening light.

Attar of rose oil rubbed into the skin, the more pure and pungent leaves my hands tinged purple, and then the body is wrapped in swathes of silk. Round and round, billowing up and down, and around and tucked in. A final cocoon and hand stitched so as to not become disturbed with the rocking of the casket. A few times, on this final wrap, an assortment of pins frames the face or adorns the chest. "#1 Dad" reads one, "Love" says another, a shamrock pin, a bowling pin, a teddy bear. Love notes to be tucked in now. A poem from a grandchild, a drawing from nephew, a song sheet from an old love. Closure, the ache shared is not as heavy as those born alone.

I think of these caskets of love. The honor that people give in these last moments and I think of those who die alone, none to honor them, love them, hold them, wash this world from them and today I ache for them. So much senseless death, so many dieing alone, so many not caring from one moment to the next who is going without when they are so focused on who has more then they do. And I ache for them.

A child, alone, no one to hold it for those final moments, no one to wash the cares away, the soil that was this world, rest the head on the pillow, kiss the closed eye good night, to say good-bye. And I ache for that one.

Dressing for Today

I don't like to be lied to.

I don't like to be patronized.

I don't like to be put off.

I don't like to be ignored.

I don't like people to use their perceived power to hurt people.

I don't like crybabies.

So, today, I think I'm gonna kick some ass.

Big girls don't cry

Yesterday was one of those days which I wanted to spend in tears. You know those days? When what you have to do is hard, so hard because what you are doing is affecting peoples' lives and what you are finding out are things that are shocking and what you really didn't want to know. By the end of the day I really didn't like people so much. A defense mechanism goes up, I think, where, if you don't like anyone what you have to do just doesn't matter?

I think people think I am made of concrete. Or maybe steel. Maybe no tissue, no blood coursing through me or tears pour out of me. Maybe they think that I can find all of this out and not want to just scream, or throw things, or vomit. I ran around interviewing people Thursday, and leaving messages, and begging for records. Records, which I came to find out, others didn't have to go through the same process I did. Records which appear to be kept from me. Why? Because of the information I am after? Shit! That means what I am after is on target? Shit, shit, shit!

Friday one real important meeting and then people start calling me. Right and left people are calling. Confirmation after confirmation. People wanting to tell their story. So many people talking I grow tired of hearing people talk, but I still need to clarify a few points and I still don't have the paperwork from records. I do, however get the "exciting" news that they released the same records to someone else. That can go into the story.

I don't think they are the same records I am asking for. I hope not. We will see. I get a call back from a few other official sources and read legal documents. So much to read and my eyes are burning, my chest is throbbing, my throat is raw. Obviously, I've got the crud.

So, last night to release all of that pent up sadness I watched the Netflix that had arrived in the mail, Two Weeks, with Sally Field. Oh my gosh. I cried within the first 15 minutes and didn't stop until it was over. My mom and dad watched it with me, which was nice. They don't do that often, sit and watch a movie on the big screen. They asked me if I was crying because I was thinking of them dying and being there when it happened or if I was thinking of my children watching me die? Who was I identifying with?

Actually, neither. I was just crying because all day I had wanted to cry and cry and cry. But I couldn't. I had my big girl pants on all the while knowing what I wanted was to peel them off, throw them into the hamper, crawl back into bed, pull the blankets up over my head and pretend I didn't know a damn thing and hope the big pink elephant trampling the county would disappear, on its own, without me doing anything.

But it won't. So, today I got up, put on another pair of big girl pants, got another interview which confirmed another fear, had a wonderful birthday with my grandson, spent time with the hubby, read more legal documents brought over by my editor that an attorney had sent to us, and made plans for tomorrow. The movie for tonight? Driving Lessons. I hope it makes me laugh. I want to, after this week. Long and hard.

The Pace of My Life

We are a family of pacers. We don't sit and think, we pace and think and many of our friends are pacers. What is it about motion that seems to help the thought process? I watch Blues Clues with my grandson and the main character encourages the kids to sit and think about the clues. Sit? My grandson knows better, you only sit if you have needle work in your hands. Or in his case, needle unwork.

The other day I was pacing in the kitchen and our friend was pacing in the green room. My mother paced in back and forth, commiserating with each of us. I left the kitchen, paced through the green room to pace the hallway for a different perspective but hubby was already there, pacing with a cell phone in his hands, talking to a contractor, on his day off. Back through the green room into the kitchen but I had vacated and Eldest had taken it and was pacing with her cell, making a hand flicking motion that I shouldn't "bother" her with my pacing.

I paced on to the pink room, where I did stop my pacing. To gaze transfixed into the fireplace. I have found that the one thing that can stop a pacer is an open flame. The dancing flickers gave my legs a rest while my mind still raced. Back and forth, up and down, pace, pace, pace. Then slowly, calm came. Puzzle pieces began to fall into place. This step should lead to that one, which could mean this was so, which meant the possibilities there were open and thus.

Back to the computer, quickly acting before I lose the inspiration, pulling the story together. Fingers fly over the keyboard. Slight distraction. What the heck? Why are all of these people walking around? So annoying! Why don't they hurry up and come to their inspiration? Where was I again? Shoot! What was that thought? Where was I going with that line of reasoning? Why are my legs so figgety? Oh, I better get up, what room is open? Why doesn't it quit raining? Crap! Too many people are here pacing, pacing, pacing.

For I am their leader, and there they go

Being the eldest I was always in the middle. I was the one that babysat so the rest of the kids saw me as middle-management, yet when something went wrong I was punished as one of the kids. I sat with the kids at the holiday dinners and in the middle seat of the station wagon on long drives. We lived next door to my aunt who had four kids, we had five kids in our family and one of my mom and aunt's best friends had five boys, all younger than me. Yeah, 14 kids and I was the eldest.

On our street we had the Vetriceks and right down the way the Hansons. From those families have come police officers. Chuckle. Could have predicted that from the games played. Anyhow, back to me. I led the fourteen of us (plus whatever neighborhood gang was there) up hill and over dale. We combed the woods from 19th and Irving to 25th and up to the Column. We knew where the overgrown long forgotten gardens were and each spring had the best pick of flowers to sell door to door. Each day we wanted to we could sell about $15 worth of flowers, which back in the day was quite a bit. Each older kid would team up with two of the little kids and go door to door using the little kids to hold out the bouquets and look up adoringly. I don't remember ever setting a price on those flowers. People just gave us whatever they wanted to.

We would also organize parades. "Give a hoot don't pollute" was very profitable for us. We would make cardboard signs and hang them around our necks, with various slogans regarding polluting on them. Then half of us would have kazoos and the other half would have cymbals, blocks, and an assortment of other noise makers. We would parade up and down 19th street screaming, "GIVE A HOOT DON'T POLLUTE" until one of the neighbors came out and gave us fudge sickles or money to run down to Public Market for treats. We thought it was in praise of our efforts! Ha, ha, ha, ha!

In the evenings we would put on "shows" and charge admission. One of our most popular shows was Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. It was very, very dramatic and we were asked to perform this one many times, to my recollection. My parent's and aunt's friends were duly impressed and paid us for their tickets. We even gave this performance for a Tupperware party or two!

Imagine my surprise when one of my sisters called me a while back to ask if she was having a horrible dream or if I had actually really and truly made her blow a kazoo in a Give a Hoot Don't Pollute parade! Made her? You begged me to be in it, was my memory. You have got to be kidding, was hers. You threatened our lives if we didn't. She's crazy, always has been.

Now, that shook me up a bit. A leader doesn't like it when the troops have different memories. This was a glorious memory of our childhood. Checking in with other members of our past and it seems that quite a few of them have been discussing things on their own and coming up with an unauthorized history of 19th street. According to some, these events were embarrassing! According to some, they were traumatic, needing years of therapy to get over! According to some, the little cuties were unhappy with their cut of the flower proceeds and are thinking of a class action law suit after all these years.

What the? It wasn't about the money, it was about fun, camaraderie, being with the big kids! Sheesh. Look where they are at now. One of them has a PhD and is head of her department working for the state of Hawaii and runs triathlons, owns her own house there! Another owns a home in Bellevue, blocks from Microsoft, head of PTOs, organizing marathons, go-to-guy for the school's money making ventures, another is the very first white person to hold tenure at the private school where he is teaching in a foreign land, another was head of her division at Boeing making mother boards for 747s, two more are in rock bands cutting cds as their part time jobs, full time one's a pastry chef for an eatery in downtown Seattle and another is an electronic technician. Thank God, none are in Hollywood writing a movie. No Jeremy, you are not.

I mean if not for the creative childhood "we" had together who can tell where they would be now? At home, in Astoria, watching television, writing on a blog?





Hey! Hmm, like my eldest has been known to say, "My mom always made it easy to leave home."

Blush of Winter

The other day I went into one of the small local stores where the counter was a couple hops, one skip and two jumps from the door. As I waited my turn I heard the door behind me tinkle open, the bell above chiming in the next customer, and then, ever so slightly, a tug at the bottom of my pant leg. My stomach did a little flip.

A wave of deja-vu floated over me as I contemplated how I was going to handle my exist, should the need arise. With fear and dread I slowly and ever so slightly peered down my leg and slightly behind me. To my utter relief a little white fluff ball of a dog stared back up at me. Its owner apologized if her dog was being overly friendly and I waved off the apology, so relieved that it was a live animal that I was assaulted by and not the dreaded pair of static cling underwear.

A long, long, long time ago (I swear it wasn't last month) I went into one of the local stores with a counter a couple hops, one skip and two jumps from the door. I went and stood at the counter and the door swung open behind me and my pant leg was tugged and I turned to see what it was, only to be humiliated by the sight of one toe of a pair of pantyhose being snagged on the opened door and the other obstinately attached to the inside of my pant leg and all the middle part stretched out in between.

Its not like you can deny they are yours. One end's attached itself to you. It is in your pant leg. A million thoughts ran through my head. Do I try explaining the morning's rush? Do I swear I yanked the pair of pants out of the dryer just before leaving the house? They are clean pants I swear it, as are the nylons, that's why there's static cling! Neither are Fabreezed hamper dwellers! Do I pretend I don't notice, maybe no one else will?

As if in slow motion, I just remember those nylons stretching, stretching, stretching and still the toe didn't come out of my pant leg. I reached down and yanked on it and it came free on the end snagged to the door. Quickly I wadded it up, refused to look at the person at the door and turned to the counter. "I wondered where they had gotten to," I said. "Will, now you know," the counterwoman replied. I made my purchase and left.

Another time I was walking up some stairs at a rather nice event and attired appropriately. I was wearing a draping evening gown, a style that I had never worn before, and we were going up some stairs that were placed rather closely together. The stairs were wide but not very well lit and I was going up chatting away with a friend of ours, with our husbands following behind (chatting as well but they like to call it talking, men don't chat). As we talked and walked (or rather climbed) I began to get shorter and shorter, but because I was so animated in what I was talking about I really didn't notice until, suddenly, I couldn't bring my knee up to walk any further. I had walked right up inside of my dress as we climbed the stairs!

My husband had noticed and, apparently, (or so he says) had been saying, "Um, honey, um dear, your dress, your dress!" There was a line of people behind us who had to wait as I backed out of my dress and shook everything back into their proper spots.

So, you see, I was quite justified in being relieved in the store the other day to see it was a dog, and not a piece of my clothing, that was accosting me. Dogs I can deal with, I just can't seem to win when doing battle with pieces of my clothing.

Urban Legends

I love a good ghost story, but it annoys me if someone really believes it. I really dislike urban legends, mostly because so many people believe them just because someone has written them down. Just because someone wrote it doesn't make it true. Sometimes I wonder if an Egyptian chuckled as he carved a hieroglyphic, knowing full well some jackass 2,000 years later was going to believe that the Pharaoh may have been a hermaphrodite just because he said so.

I love the people who send me forwards, a lot of cute stories come and so often its a love note that means, "thinking of you" from some really busy people. I don't have any friends who have nothing better to do than just forward many dozens of posts each day. With each story that I get I still feel the need to check snopes or urban legend.com just to see the status of the story.

How come, even when the story even started out true, people couldn't leave it alone? What is this perverse need that people have of taking a story that is true on its own merit and embellish it to make it a lie? Take the story of Dr. Howard Kelly. A very nice, wealthy, doctor who lived in the late 1800s to mid 1900s, billing rich clients a goodly amount so he could write off the charges of those less fortunate. A wonderful story in and of itself.

Why couldn't someone leave well enough alone? They had to tweak the story, make him an impoverished youth working his way through medical school who repays the kindness of a young woman years later when she comes to him for medical treatment of a rare disease. Don't you think his real story is more important and valid for today? A legitimate and practical way for a doctor to practice now, than to wait for impoverished people to aspire and find a way to attend medical school?

This is not, by any means, a slam on the dear friend who sent me the email. You have to know by now that after I appreciate the story, I have to look it up and see if its true. I always have to know, to the best of my ability to research it or find out, what the truth of the matter is. For those who don't believe in God, that may seem a contradiction of my belief in the divine. I can only assure you, it isn't.

However, isn't that what life is about, in part? Ascertaining for our ownselves what "is", what "matters", and what we are measuring that all by? Atleast, that's what I think for me.

UPDATE
I do love many of my uncle's and friends' forwarded jokes and riddles, etc. I was reading one out loud to hubby, trying to convince him of its merits. "Why is "Bra" singular and "panties" plural?" He responds, "Because bra is short for brazierre. " I give him the wife look. "That's not the point. Why don't you call it braz for short?" He gave me the puzzled husband look, "How would I know, no one asks me what to call undergarments." In frustration that he's not getting it I try to reason with him, "Think about it honey, have you ever said, 'I am going to put on my panty' instead of 'I am going to put on my panties'?" Completely deadpan he replied, "I can honestly say I try not to ever say either of those things."

I don't know if I was laughing harder at the fact that he had such a serious face when he said it or the fact that he said he "tries" not to say either of those things! Ah, my Yogi Berra, and no, none of you can have him. Then he called me the weirdo!

Time bandit

I spent today in reflection, anticipation and some regret. Time seemed to stop today, something stole it hid it away, allowing me to spend the day in suspended animation, neither going very fast forward or spending too much time dwelling in the past. In some ways it was tranquil in our household but also it was amusingly loud and disturbing. All televisions were going, which is very, very unusual. Most often, no televisions are going. Sometimes, in the evening, three televisions will be going. One in our bedroom as my husband is watching a hunting or fishing program, one in my father's bedroom as he is watching his sport's program and the one in the green room that everyone else is watching. Today, all of the televisions were on and they were all on a different football game. They even had the cable hooked VCR projecting on the wide screen. Yeah, for four adults to wander from room to room, catching any game midway through. Sports central.

I spent the day reflecting on my future. Yesterday was spent mostly in tears. Tough choices having to be made, and I do hate being an adult. Today was spent happily contemplating what my decisions meant and how to proceed and getting rather excited as opportunities started unfolding. Of course, I made sure no bridges were burned this time, as I do sometimes burn bridges (hard as that may be for some to believe).

Without spilling beans too soon, I am excited about being part of something almost from its ground floor. I think it is something that is desperately needed in this community, be a force of good (ouch, that sounded like we were going to be a justice league or comic book crusaders or something) plus I will get to use some of my education before I lose it, permanently. It's someone else's baby and I only play a bit part, but it is a good role and will be fun and a lot of work. I hope I am up to it and not a disappointment.

I am not one for New Year's resolutions, mostly because if it is something everyone else is doing I don't want to do it plus, this isn't my new year, that happens March 21st so I don't need to worry about making lists that I will purposefully screwup on day two. Today, it did feel nice to wake up to 2008. I would like to travel more, worry less, enjoy what I spend money on more and spend it with my husband more often. I would like to love more often, be less angry but be more persistent in seeking answers and results.

Is a wish list the same as resolutions? Goals? Aspirations? Whatever. I hope it happens. Sometimes writing them down helps focus, sometimes it lets me see how stupid, naive or on target I am. Time will tell. Tick-tock, it appears time has started up again.

Elections

Many people are under the impression that Bahá'ís do not have an administrative branch to their religion. They think we get together, pray, and teach/preach. A few have asked how do people “rise through the ranks” when they hear that we have local, regional, national and international assemblies and some have asked what these bodies “do”.

“Politics” in the Bahá'í Faith are so far removed from politics as known in the USA it is hard to resolve the two, at least in my feeble mind. The administrative bodies are elected on a yearly basis on the local, regional, and national level and every five years at the international level. Locally all adult members of the faith vote for nine people that they feel best exemplify the qualities of devotion to the faith, humility, obedience to the laws, maturity, understanding, patience, love and wisdom. There is no nominating process, no electioneering, people discuss the qualities needed for the office. They discuss what qualifies someone to sit on the Assembly. They do not discuss the pros and cons of specific people. A Bahá'í will never, ever say that they are better suited then someone else to do a certain job in order to be elected to anything. A Bahá'í will not make a promise in order to be elected to anything.

The Assembly's job is to run the administrative affairs of the community, see that religious classes for all age groups are provided, devotional programs, teaching programs, social and economic programs as needed, as well as being the conduit of information regarding the Faith to the secular community. Depending on the laws of the country the Assembly is responsible for the education of children, the disbursement of estates, marriages, divorces, burial, care of the elderly, the indigent and orphans. The Assembly, in many countries, act in the same capacity as the clergy, with the same protection and obligations of confidentiality.

In the Faith the members of the Assembly are accountable to God. They cannot act independently of one another. They have no title, nor are they afforded any extra merits or position in the community. They host the community Feast each month, attended only by community members, to worship together, discuss community events and voice their concerns. Assembly meetings occur at least once between each Feast and are not open. In Assembly meetings the nine members discuss openly and frankly the matters on the agenda. Agendas are presented to the community and the conclusions are made known. No single person on the Assembly takes ownership of any idea. Once something is approved by an Assembly it is collectively owned by the Assembly as a whole. The Assembly never approves of anything until all nine come to an agreement. After an agreement is reached no member of the Assembly speaks disparagingly of the matter. Community members are encouraged at Feasts to frankly voice their opinions of the decisions of the Assembly.

How are these nine elected? In a city or county like ours, with 20 some Bahá'ís, it isn’t hard to know one another but in many communities, like Portland, Seattle, Eugene or Los Angeles, there are as many as 600-1,000 Bahá'ís to choose from. As already mentioned, there is no nominating process in the Faith. The electorate is expected to know one another well enough to vote for one another. Bahá'ís don’t just “go to church on Sunday” they are part of a community, participating in classes, in social and economic projects, working with one another. In this manner they know one another well enough to know if a position on the Assembly is a good fit for a particular person. Each year remedies can be made because we are humans and circumstances change. If someone is seen not to be attending meetings (the attendance record is published), if they stop serving on SED projects, stop going to Feast, if their attitude changes to one of dictatorial because of being on the Assembly, the friends quickly see who not to vote for the next year. Those serving on the Assembly must see themselves as in service 24/7 to all of the community, at all times. If they lose sight of that they will not be elected the following year. Or, if their circumstances change where they cannot be of service 24/7 they won't be elected. It isn't a popularity contest. It is a challenge in learning absolute humility and total servitude to a community, putting its needs above yours and your family's. There is no pay for this service.

Sitting in chamber, in an Assembly meeting, is an experience quite unlike anything else I have ever had. An idea put forth does not belong to the individual once it leaves your mouth, it belongs to the Assembly to be discussed fully and frankly, without reservation. When discussing who should be in charge of a project the pros and cons of the individual are discussed fully and frankly so that the best match can be made for the full success of the project. Because there is no need to advance the individual the full focus can be put on the project at hand, and frank discussion can revolve around available resources to make the project sustainable.

In small communities growth is slow, in large communities growth is faster. Growth matches the resources at hand, making each project sustainable. Social and economic development projects must be generated by the local community and must show itself to be needed and sustainable. Meaning, a group of well intentioned Bahá'ís cannot go off to a reservation and decide that the Indians need to learn how to make and sell hats. The impetus must come from the Indians themselves.

Elections “American” style have always been difficult for me to understand. Why would I vote for someone I don’t know? Debates on television mean nothing to me. They are scripted bunch of nonsense. Lawyerese meaning nothing. “I did not have sex with that woman.” “I am not the generating force.” “I am not a criminal.” So much double talk. A position is supposed to be non partisan but then the people in it are almost always part of a party. In the voters pamphlet it says the DA is a non partisan but he is listed as a Democratic precinct leader on their roles, so which one is truthful and how come he gets away with that? The Democrats recently advertised with their members for someone to run against one of the county commissioners. Supposedly that position is non partisan. All elective County offices shall be nonpartisan (Chap 1 Sec 5, Clatsop Co. Charter). That person will owe allegiance to that party, right? Why bother writing that into the charter if all someone has to do is declare themselves non partisan to run for commissioner? Don’t they still owe allegiance to a party or feel indebted to it?

Funny thing this American system is. With the parties so blended, the rhetoric so unbelievable so many seem dissatisfied with it. One wonders if the time is right for a change.

Oh, the weather outside is frightful

We got a white christmas after all! Thunder, lightening, rain, sleet, snow, hail, too. Ahhhhh, the Pacific Northwest rain forest where if you wait 10 minutes the weather can change 10 degrees and everything is dramatically altered, attitudes included!

Christmas season was hard to get into this year. As a Baha'i one celebrates with one's cultural heritage, freely, as one wishes to. I mean, if my cultural heritage were to severe body parts (i.e. little boy's who-who's because he'll look funny in the shower room if you don't) then I won't participate. However, if it is to celebrate family togetherness, acknowledging those family and friends that you may have overlooked during the year with special tokens of love and acts of kindness, that is something we take part in.

I don't go for the over commercialization of a holiday, any holiday. We don't buy into randomly mailing cards, if you send one to us we return the favor, sans newsletter. We spend few dollars on gifts, often they are homestitched, baked, canned, smoked or brewed. The kids know that Santa is a feeling/concept and not a physical person, and that special people get to "play" the role of Santa each year. It is better to give and watch the joy your gift bestowed on the recipient. In the same regard, be a gracious receiver, remember how much fun it is to watch someone truly enjoy the gift you carefully chose for them.

This year almost all of our decor was packed away, packed so well I haven't the foggiest which container I packed it in. No lights outdoors, nor old time honored ornaments for the tree. Up until the week before our house looked as if perhaps the Grinch had taken up residence. My grandson reminded us that we still had a heritage to share. He went to Fred Meyers and saw "Freddy's Christmas" and on TV and the movies we rented were various other, "Christmases," labeling each one with their own identities.

Only once did the concept of presents come into play, when we were watching the movie Santa Claus is coming to town (which I find very annoying, what's with that penguin?). When the miester burger took all of the children's toys away from the children my grandson actually cried! And when the Claus brought them their presents he was so happy.


The only way to teach our children our heritage is by example. So, our German tree came out, ornaments went up. Lights strewn about. My grandson sighed, "Christmas is here! This is my own Christmas!" We are a part of our cultural heritage. We did not leave it behind, but we do not accept it all. We celebrate the time of year that brings us together and recognizes the value each of us brings to the table. We like the idea of Santa but we do not say he alone is responsible to bring riches to children the world over. We are responsible for one another and the Santa we have today may or may not be the same Santa as next year. Santa is the name we choose to call him, it is his spirit we emulate, not his name, not his person.


While many we love celebrate this time of year as the birth of Jesus Christ, we do not. While we love Him wholeheartedly, we do not believe He was born in December. Nor do we believe that He would want His birth celebrated alone, when the Divinely eminating spirit that has manifested Itself repeatedly in many Divine Educators is recognized by so few.

We celebrate this time of year to acknowledge our culture, to be with family and friends, to eat great food, enjoy witty conversations, learn new stories about spouses from their siblings, take pictures of people dribbling food our of their mouths and making figure gestures at the photographer.


Also, we celebrate because we love to celebrate! In reality, it's for the hot cocoa, krumkaka, pupmpkin pie and games. Let it snow, rain, sleet or hail, we will sing in the new year, bringing with it the good we acquired while tossing out the bad we learned we didn't need.

To our friends, old and newly acquired, I wish you a holiday season filled with delight and may all of your challenges in the new year be one's you accept with radiant acquiescence, determined to learnwhat needs to be learned and successfully pass all tests with flying colors!

I'm baaaaack!

I cannot believe how long it has taken to get back online! Talked to TH weeks ago and hearing about people with and without online capabilities. Being primary care team leader for Parkinson's parent and grandson left me little time to run to town and find a WiFi hotspot. I made it into town once and paid my online bills. Anxious that once the electricity, cable and cell finally came on the lack of payment would immediately turn them off!

TH had assured me of quite a few hotspots for WiFi but I couldn't find the one at Shilo, nor the one that AT&T said would be open for those paying bills, nor UPS' for paying bills. I tried at Starbucks, also, no luck. Obviously, this was on a shopping run to Freddy's. On another day I finally found an opening downtown Astoria but kept loosing it. I paid bills quickly and my husband had a heart attack that I had left our accounts vulnerable. We do use Mozilla and the connection kept breaking up so at least there is a little comfort there.

All of this is small potatoes compared to the devastation so many experienced. Flooding and slides surrounded us to the north, south and east. To the west is the ocean, waiting to claim back what it has always felt is rightfully its own. How many Indian villages lie at the bottom of sea? How soon before Astoria joins them?

Barometric pressure drops and my pain sky rockets. As the relief washes over me that in our small world we have survived with only a few scratches I am assessing what we could have done to help more, groan less, be better neighbors. Since it appears that we have a category 2 hurricane and should be prepared for more of these to hit our area as our globe experiences some sort of climate change, there are quite a few things to contemplate this holiday season.

As soon as I can wrestle the camera away from Eldest I will post some of the pics we took. TH has the best photos, by far, but we got a few more. By the way, TH, whose forest did you get a snapshot of that had been devastated by the storm.

Contentment

Every once in awhile everything seems to come together. At these moments the best thing to do is treasure it. Savor the moment like a perfect cup of coffee, a nice soak in the tub, a gorgeous sunset/sunrise. You don't know what the next moment is going to be like. You don't know if everything that's going right is going to fall apart. You can't be bothered by that. You just have to savor the moment, happy that everything, for just this time, fell in to place and marvel at that.

When I woke up this morning I didn't know it was going to be one of those days. I thought it was going to be one of "those" days. The ominous "those" days. I said my morning prayer, and an added one. The toilets were backed up. The sink was backing up. My grandson announced that there was a "mess" in the bath tub! He said, "I think Aunty Aimee did it!" which I found amusing. Aunty Aimee did not. My husband had called to say that we were to expect the windstorm of all windstorms on Monday, 90 mile an hour winds. Half of our home gets quite cold because when the garage was converted a decade ago they didn't upgrade the electric heating.

So, it looked like it was going to be one of "those" days. I started calling all of the septic places. No one answered. Just great. I left messages and proceeded on to project two. Went online to find the price of generators. Found one at Home Depot. Called Longview. They had one left and even though they aren't supposed to reserve items since we were coming from Astoria they would. Now, before there is hollering we are totally tapped out cash wise and ONLY had Dad's Home Depot card to fall back on. We usually shop local from Grover's, however with a freezer of food and eight people (one being a baby and one with Parkinson's) I was tired of playing RussianRoulette with our power.

Project three called as we were preparing to leave. A friend of my sister's was coming to look at her dog. My father had been dog watching for seven months. A pure bred, English box-head lab, two years old and HUGE. Casey Ty thinks he's a lapdog to make matters worse. And sheds, and labs stink. Seventy pound labs who are supposed to love water but hate warm sudsy water especially stink. It was time for sis to come and get her dog but she didn't have room, yet, either. So she was having a friend come and take a look see as to whether or not he wanted to add Casey Ty to his family. Joy of joy, he did! Project three was completed first.

Dad and I jumped into his jimmy and raced up to Longview, on the way Ed's Septic called and he wedged us into his tight schedule. Project one on track to be completed. Our son Matthew called and said that he dug out the lid of the septic tank and had paid the waterbill on his way to work! Wow, a project not even on the list taken care of. Then my daughter called to say that she had put a ventless propane gas stove on her home depot charge as an early Christmas gift to the family so we should look at propane tanks while we are up there in Longview. Teamwork! Yeah!

When we got up to Longview we got the last generator the store had and it was also on sale for $200 less then what they had quoted on the phone! It is a Coleman Powermate, 5000 watt, w/a 10 hp subaru engine. For the first time ever in HD we got customer service. The generator was reserved as promised and we even got to talk to someone who actually had one of the ventless propane stoves in her home. She has a 1500 sq. ft. home and it heats the whole thing on one fill of the 100 gal tank for the whole winter! I think that costs about $600. We have a 1940 sq. ft. home and I don't expect it to heat the other half of the house but if it can cut our heat bill in half and keep the mold out of the back half of the house I will be happy, happy, happy!

We also got batteries and a 25 gallon propane tank. We will need to check specs for putting in a ventless propane stove, as well as get the line and connectors locally, but should the storm hit and we lose power we will be prepared.

Came home from Longview, answered emails. Added comments to a slide presentation for our cluster meeting for Sunday. Read comments from friendly guy. Peeked in on a few blogs and forums. Filled out paperwork that had been waiting patiently. Talked to up north sister to make sure she was just as ready for the storm, she has her generator all ready, too (she was out of power for 10 days last year).

Eldest remembered to get me my library book and I get to try out Susanna Clark's talents in Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell later after watching Perfect Stranger . I like children, today, and grandchildren, and parents and spouses.

Tonight it is with a contented feeling I wrap up the evening. We are ready for the storm. Our home is secure. There are a few more things to do but the major things are taken care of. Our septic tank is cleaned out, our power is taken care of, we have jugs of water, our hatches will be battened down. We are, almost, ready for winter.

For a day that started out, literally, in the crapper it sure ended up pretty darn good.

Word Power

I was in Costco the other day with the grandson, we were having a screaming contest. Actually, the contest was whether he could scream and run w/o me catching him in the actual act of screaming. As we rounded a corner we came upon a family in a cloud of red, almost literally. It was Mot and 33 and their children. I commented to my grandson about the "funny looking family of red people" without thinking how that sounded.

Mot looked up and laughed and waved. She was examining one of the sample tables with one of the cherubs while 33 had another and one more was in between. Costco's wide aisles, with people stopping at the tasting tables, give plenty of room for chatting and looking for whatever it was you thought you needed a case of. My grandson smiled at the children, and then took off at a high pitched squeal.

When I got up to the front of the store we were standing in line and a woman stood behind us. She was quite prim and proper, elegantly dressed, bejeweled and bedecked and not smiling. My grandson looked at her and commented, "Look, 'nother red person." She, indeed, was sporting a head of red hair. She stared, hard, at us. My grandson gave her his brightest smile and for once, it wasn't returned. She continued to stare.

My grandson shrugged, I shrugged, and we chatted on about whatever it was that had held our attention before the red lady had caught his attention. I knew the woman. She was the mother of one of my daughters' classmates, back in the day when our children attended public school. She had never been friendly, even though our daughters had spent time at one another's homes, overnights and everything. I had always been puzzled by the complete and total rebuff. The hard stare had always been there. If others were present she would talk to the air above my head, acting as if we were having a conversation, but we had never actually had one.

I wonder, now, if she thought I had in some way coaxed my grandson into calling her a red person? I wonder if I ever could coax my grandson into something like that? Highly doubtful. Children never, ever perform on schedule and usually wait to put on their "shows" at the least opportune moments (exactly what they say about us when they are in their teens and twenties).
It also got me thinking about the way I talk. I honestly don't want the woman to be hurt or think I was encouraging my grandson to be offensive. Earlier, too, what did that woman at the tasting table think? In the Baha'i faith there is a saying that the effects of a word can last one hundred words. When you think of the power of suggestion, and what it does when you tell a child they are bad (not their actions, but they, themselves, are bad) you can understand the power of a word.

When you are having an incredibly bad day, and it seems that everything is going wrong, the effect that one person looking at you and saying, "You look lovely" or "Damn you look good" how that seems to change your day. Did magic happen? Of course not, many would say. It is just how you look at things changed. The same amount of sunshine seeps through the clouds, but you seem to see more of it. The same amount of raining is falling, but because you are so intent on looking for the sunshine you are unaware of it.

And this isn't magic?

There are those who say we are just getting too politically correct, but I don't think so. I think when someone says a word hurts them, the potential that it will hurt for one hundred years is as great as the threat of contaminating another spot with a dumping site with no thought of who will clean it up in the future. That voice must be heard, no matter the source, and evaluated, for the future.

There are enough contaminated dumping sites in the world, there is plenty of room for more magic.

Fabric of families

Of the nicest gifts I have received in recent years are two from my son-in-law, Theo Sery. I treasure both. One of them is a book from Sherman Alexie, that Theo had inscribed for me, with a rather amusing comment. And another is a message he left on my cell phone, left after a Christmas holiday, two years ago. I keep saving it. I should record it to my laptop as one of these days I am going to accidentally press 7 instead of 9 and it will be gone.

As I have said before, our family is a very passionate one. We love with our whole being, anger with the torrent of a storm, languish in despairs that would match VanGogh or Hemmingway, (natch that we had their talent), laugh and quip until whole classrooms would be made to stay in study halls for our misbehavior, pranksters to the point that hmmmm, well I shouldn't go there. Not sure about statutes and all of that.

I treasure the small love notes that I keep and as I packed (and then unpacked, then repacked and now unpack again) I found so many that I wonder how this family has stood the test we strain on one another. What is this fabric that was woven around us that it stretches so far? Should it not be torn to shreds by now? Should someone have not caught it aflame and blown its ashes to the wind?

Friends, family and the fabric that weaves in and out and through it all. The power that sustains us. Is this love? This thing that hurts so much one moment, making us feel as if nothing we do is ever enough yet in the next breath fills us with so much courage nothing can hold us from our goal?

I do not know. If, however, governments were able to find this fabric and weave it, I think we should begin to find the way to really live with one another. To thrive in one another's presence, to dream to be better societies, better people, just better. I do not know. But I think it would be worth trying.

Films, family and friends

Sunday night was spent in front of the king size duvet cover we use as a wide screen for the projector and I watched two foreign films. I just craved the sound of foreign languages. Foreign streets. Foreign lands. Hmmm, wonder if I wanted to escape?

The first film was the Iranian film "Offside." Really a good one. It is great how emotional people all around the world get and amazing how reserved we are. Quite often my family really embarrasses our friends because we are very, very European in our emotions. We WAIL at funerals. My aunt threw herself on my grandfather's coffin at the grave. That even shocked us. It was great though, and my father has made it a requirement for part of his funeral. We are looking to hire for the occasion. At a court case this same aunt jumped up and shouted she was going to "choka you neck" at someone who was lying on the stand. She was escorted out to calm down.

Anyhow, this film had so much emotion. At the end when the soccer team won grown adults were dancing in the streets. Wouldn't that have been something on November 6th? To see dancing in the street? Instead we get a pissy review in the local rag about a woman confronting a frumpy reporter and since the pen is mightier than the sword the poor woman sounded bent and the reporter the hero. After a half year of emotion we, the county, deserved a street dance a la Drew Cary!

Bollywood, Eastside-Westside, some sort of extravaganza. Fireworks and a banner floating down from the bridge. Instead, the proper handshake, hug, and carefully crafted fist shaking in the following morning paper.

Give me Iran. Give me Europe, give me Africa. Where people fight tooth and nail for their freedoms and celebrate it to the hilt when they are allowed to exercise it.

The second film was French "My Best Friend." Friends. I gotta tell you, I have the very, very, very best friends. I do not deserve the friends that I have. When people wonder why I do what I do, for the most part, it is for them. Mes amis, ceci est pour vous. Je vous remercie. Merci beaucoup, mes petites têtes de chou.

A little too ironic

Uh, guys? Some help or we are out of here. Really. No more time. End of the line and all that.

When the swords flash, go forward! When the shafts fly, press onward!

Ariistotle:

Moral excellence comes about as a result of habit. We become just by doing just acts, temperate by doing temperate acts, brave by doing brave acts.

Harriet Beecher Stowe:

All serious daring starts from within.

Helen Keller:

I long to accomplish a great and noble tasks, but it is my chief duty to accomplish humble tasks as though they were great and noble. The world is moved along, not only by the mighty shoves of its heroes, but also by the aggregate of the tiny pushes of each honest worker.

Helen Keller:

We could never learn to be brave and patient if there were only joy in the world.

Dorothy Thompson:

Courage, it would seem, is nothing less than the power to overcome danger, misfortune, fear, injustice, while continuing to affirm inwardly that life with all its sorrows is good; that everything is meaningful even if in a sense beyond our understanding; and that there is always tomorrow.

Margaret Chase Smith:

Moral cowardice that keeps us from speaking our minds is as dangerous to this country as irresponsible talk. The right way is not always the popular and easy way. Standing for right when it is unpopular is a true test of moral character.

Robert Coles:

Abraham Lincoln did not go to Gettysburg having commissioned a poll to find out what would sell in Gettysburg. There were no people with percentages for him, cautioning him about this group or that group or what they found in exit polls a year earlier. When will we have the courage of Lincoln?

Susan B. Anthony:

Cautious, careful people, always casting about to preserve their reputation and social standing, never can bring about a reform. Those who are really in earnest must be willing to be anything or nothing in the world's estimation, and publicly and privately, in season and out, avow their sympathy with despised and persecuted ideas and their advocates, and bear the consequences.

Theodore Roosevelt:

It is not the critic who counts, not the man who points out how the strong man stumbled, or where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly, who errs and comes short again and again, who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions, and spends himself in a worthy cause, who at best knows achievement and who at the worst if he fails at least fails while daring greatly so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat.

Winston Churchill:

Courage is going from failure to failure without losing enthusiasm.

Theodore H. White:

To go against the dominant thinking of your friends, of most of the people you see every day, is perhaps the most difficult act of heroism you can perform.

As I read the forums and see my name pulled through the gutters and sometimes watch in sadness when someone drags my religion along as well I am reminded that oftentimes there is nothing one can do when unbalanced, irrational, hatred is involved. So many people the world over have suffered so much more just for the opportunity to vote, for the opportunity to voice opposition, that a few names slung at me by an anonymous person shouldn't even hurt for a moment. This is a story that we learn in our teens. Possibly, some of us, younger, depending on where we live and how we must prepare for our lives as Baha'is.

An Austrian officer, Captain Von Goumoens, in the employ of the Sháh at that time, was, it is reliably stated, so horrified at the cruelties he was compelled to witness that he tendered his resignation. "Follow me, my friend," is the Captain's own testimony in a letter he wrote two weeks after the attempt in question, which was published in the "Soldatenfreund," "you who lay claim to a heart and European ethics, follow me to the unhappy ones who, with gouged-out eyes, must eat, on the scene of the deed, without any sauce, their own amputated ears; or whose teeth are torn out with inhuman violence by the hand of the executioner; or whose bare skulls are simply crushed by blows from a hammer; or where the bazaar is illuminated with unhappy victims, because on right and left the people dig deep holes in their breasts and shoulders, and insert burning wicks in the wounds. I saw some dragged in chains through the bazaar, preceded by a military band, in whom these wicks had burned so deep that now the fat flickered convulsively in the wound like a newly extinguished lamp. Not seldom it happens that the unwearying ingenuity of the Oriental leads to fresh tortures. They will skin the soles of the Bábí's feet, soak the wounds in boiling oil, shoe the foot like the hoof of a horse, and compel the victim to run. No cry escaped from the victim's breast; the torment is endured in dark silence by the numbed sensation of the fanatic; now he must run; the body cannot endure what the soul has endured; he falls. Give him the coup de grâce! Put him out of his pain! No! The executioner swings the whip, and--I myself have had to witness it--the unhappy victim of hundredfold tortures runs! This is the beginning of the end. As for the end itself, they hang the scorched and perforated bodies by their hands and feet to a tree head downwards, and now every Persian may try his marksmanship to his heart's content from a fixed but not too proximate distance on the noble quarry placed at his disposal. I saw corpses torn by nearly one hundred and fifty bullets." "When I read over again," he continues, "what I have written, I am overcome by the thought that those who are with you in our dearly beloved Austria may doubt the full truth of the picture, and accuse me of exaggeration. Would to God that I had not lived to see it! But by the duties of my profession I was unhappily often, only too often, a witness of these abominations. At present I never leave my house, in order not to meet with fresh scenes of horror... Since my whole soul revolts against such infamy ... I will no longer maintain my connection with the scene of such crimes." Little wonder that a man as far-famed as Renan should, in his "Les Apôtres" have characterized the hideous butchery perpetrated in a single day, during the great massacre of Tihrán, as "a day perhaps unparalleled in the history of the world!"

Passing Tests

It is funny how family's hear something and all of a sudden it becomes the family "saying" of the moment. Watching this week's drama play out in the daily online, for free, has been quite amusing. So many quotes to chose from. My gosh, josh, just begs to be quoted, however, "Lies, lies, lies," can only play out so many times.

Richard Lee has had some great quotes this week, but too long to be family sayings. Plus, his have been a little too specific and you have to be in the right frame of mind to give (and take) them. Sam Patrick's repertoire has been honed to his smug smile that he gives when he doesn't vote but Richard ignores his childish behavior at the BOCC meetings. Really not much for a family to appreciate there.

So, what does that leave us with? This week the winnnnnner is, "That just doesn't pass the smell test." Did you remember to drop the Netflix off in the mailbox? Oh, no, the line in front of the mailbox was too long. That just doesn't pass the smell test.

Did you remember to feed the dog? We're out of dog food, and I couldn't find anything that wasn't covered with something fuzzy in the frig. That just doesn't pass the smell test, and its your turn to clean the frig.

The phone rings. "Hi there! This is Marge I am calling from Sunshine Corp for the Daily Astorian, your hometown newspaper, and did you know you can get the Daily Astorian at the all time low price of just $7.40 delivered right to your door? You can get all the local coverage, keep up on local events, find out the scores of your favorite local teams and get the Weekend Round Up! Can I just get the name of what city you live in and we can start your delivery tomorrow!"


I loved telling her, "No thank-you. The Daily Astorian just doesn't pass the smell test!"

Strikes Rescinded

When my children were teenagers they had a variety of friends. Since we homeschooled you would think we had a little bit more control over who they "associated" or were "affiliated" with. Yeah, right! What we found is that we had more control over the friends than we did over our children.

Friends can be sent home. Your own children can pout for days, teenagers can pout for years. Half the time you don't even know what they're pouting about. How can you win? Through their friends. If the friend is the one that wants the fun thing to happen (the camping trip during school days, the trip to Portland, the sleepovers so they use your widescreen dvd projector and eat your food) they're the ones that will keep your kids in line.

We told the friends they got three strikes. On the third strike they were OUT! Out of our home for six months. And we followed through. Never once did one of the friends get a third strike and get leniency because of who they were or any special tie to the family. Eldest's best friend (who later became our fifth child) got a third strike and we didn't see her for six months. We still hear about that!

You could only get a third strike for one thing. Deception. You were not allowed to deceive us. If you said you all were going to the movies but you went to a friends house and no phone call was made everyone in the group got a strike. WOW! The kids all were told to call us and FAST when plans were changed. We would even get calls from guys saying they weren't sure if any of the girls had remembered to call but they had decided to go over to John's house instead of Steven's and they were next-door neighbors!

Those were the days! All too soon the girls (mind you we had four all the same age) were meeting guys who weren't so cooperative and the last thing they cared about were camping trips with the family and movies on the widescreen. Lovable TH was the bane of our existence with Hubby making at least one early morning call down a muddy farm lane to yank two daughters out of a house. TH - Your strikes were MUCHO! And you wondered where your months of banishment came from?

One of the girls friends recently told us that she had two strikes on her and it still fills her with fear at what would have happened to her if she had received that third one. Her eyes actually welled up! Now, mine do too. I told her, all you had to do was "don't lie"! She said, "That's just not as easy as you say, especially when you're a teenager!" But, she's still afraid!

To one of our daughters' dearest friends: You did something today for me and only you know how great it really was! You are the only one of our children's friends who has ever told us how dear those strikes were to you. You are in control of your life now and forever. For the first time in the history of the family I decree, "Your strikes have all been rescinded." Don't let our strikes be your guide, let your conscience. We love you, trust you, believe in you. Believe in yourself.

Hard wind blowing

WOW! What a blow Thursday and Friday! Hard winds, blow hards outdoors and indoors. The weather such a mixture of rain, sleet, hail, thunder and lightening. The heavens wept, almost as if it were making its own displeasure known.

This wasn't a Chinook Wind blowing, the warm wet winds we learn to love. The winds blowing these past two days were the chilling ones full of foreboding, cold is coming sooner than any of us were fully ready for, without fully understanding how deep into the season we already are. Winds warning of oppressive times when thick blankets piled high and deep and heads buried deeper is the only way to ride out the impending stormy season. Or so some would have us think.

Others of the local native breed confront this type of season head on, no matter how foolhardy others think they are. They look at this time as a time of challenge, a time to face what is known as bad and find the good, eschew the safe path and confront the danger and with one hand stretched towards the angels and the other in a fist shaken at the devils, they laugh into the wind and know they are alive.

Time enough for the thick blankets, roaring fires, hot cocoa and a good book after the day is over. However, hatches must be battened down, the woodpile must be stocked full, the neighbor's pantry must be as full as yours, their blankets must be as thick and they must feel as safe as you do or does it matter how hard the wind blows? Do you have a right to bury your head?

Spammed

Re: Your Pharmacy Invoice # 0512913700 xSXPU Don't be aware of fraud! We are certified by VISA, VeriSign and provide secure and confidential purchase!

Too funny! Does this actually steer people to their site? Have you EVER clicked on one of these links? I must have had a least a dozen of these in my spam file today. Do they share them? Forward them? How do they get credit for being the one that finally gets a curious lookie loo like me to take a look?

And notice the italicized words. Don't be aware of fraud! Is this a real crook telling you ahead of time not to be aware of fraud? Was that a subliminal message? What kind of crook is this? How often do you see that, a word slipped in that changes the whole meaning of the sentence or the paragraph?

If I am really bored I will go to the dot com place but I never click on the link because my hubby has warned me of the dire consequences of doing so. Internet hell happens. The household becomes open to hostile attacks of hackers waiting in breathless anticipation. These faceless predators, apparently, have been waiting for almost a decade to get over the firewalls that my husband has been building with all of the care and persistence that his forbearers built their stockades around the citadel.

With one careless stroke of my finger I could cause a tear that would rip asunder the world as we know it! My finger waivers ever so often. Especially after a skirmish in which he is still chanting, “I win, no rule changes” like the adults that we are. Instead I reach up and tilt one of the pictures on the wall out of alignment and then another, and then another. It still drives him nuts and doesn’t threaten the “safety of our world as we know it.”

Choices

After a day like today I miss Haifa with all my heart and soul. If I were there I would miss here, I know I would, but dear God, some moments I would like the opportunity to miss here in trade for being there.

My mind was blown today by finding out that because I love my county, love keeping those things local which should stay local, love justice and truth that I have a "pathological hatred" of the district attorney. His words, not mine. That frightens me.

Does he have a "pathological hatred" when he walks into the courtroom to defend our state's statutes and constitution? Doesn't he defend them out of love? Why would he assign hatred to me? I am so confused by this accusation. I perform best when I love hardest, not when I hate. Doesn't he do the same? Does he walk into the courtroom filled with hatred for the accused or love for truth and justice? Doesn't he want those two things to prevail? I know I do.

Thank goodness for grandchildren to keep things in perspective. I had three phones going today and my grandson underfoot. " 'Bika, you okay?" "'Bika kin I have some juice, pweaze?" "'Bika, you need shockolat? Let's have shockolat, it makes you feel better." Gotta love the kid, he knows what life's about.

I read where 'Abdu'l-Baha encouraged the children of his household to learn their prayers with encouraging rewards of sweets, dates, sugar chips, etc. I have sugarless chocolates for my tense moments (and those special womanly needs, you know) but I have taken to sharing my stash with my grandson in exchange for learning a line from a prayer. With his invite that "shockolate" would make us both feel better I took out a piece for us each. He received his and solemnly said, "Greater is God than every great one," and popped it into his mouth. I said, "Oh, good job and popped mine into my mouth. "'Bika!" he squealed, "say a prayer" as 'shockolate' juice ran down his chin. I quickly said, "I bear witness O my God, that thou hast created me to know Thee and to worship Thee." He nodded in satisfaction and said, "Good job, Beek!"

An appraisal by a disgruntled district attorney, an appraisal by a two and a half year old grandson. One of hatred, one of love. Hmmmmm, which one shall I accept? I guess I'll stay around for awhile longer.

Blah, blah, blah ....

I shouldn't even be doing this because I have sooooo many important assignments due asap but I can't seem to focus. I hate deadlines and mine is for, like, 8 am tomorrow morning so what am I doing at 2 am the night before? Watching dippy cartoons and reading other people's blogs. SO many good local writers! I am envious.

I am soooo tired of the issue of this campaign, honestly. And I am frustrated with people not getting it and then I am frustrated with myself for trying to convince people with closed minds about anything. Forty years of training you'd think I'd understand closed minds, but I can't conceive of a mind that doesn't look at logic and come to the logical conclusion. (grin)

I do have to admit that phone calls from reporters have been fun but the down side is trying to remember what was said afterwards. I keep thinking I need a tape recorder so I know what points I was trying to make and what actually came out of my mouth. I swear my mouth and my brain are not connected at times. I also have a terrible habit of speaking to the person in whatever accent they are using. It embarrasses my children horribly and I am completely unaware that I am doing it! How does crap like that happen?

From the ballot measure experience what I would like to do is consult. The biggest break down in this issue was goodwill from the parties involved. This is critical in the relationship between county administrators and local state offices. You see this type of break down a lot between the different law enforcement agencies. Maybe the DA is a residual effect from that? So sad to see our community suffer as a result.

No cute stories that I can tell this week. I will keep my eyes open, though. I will make a goodwill effort to post more often and with much more interesting posts. Rallly I will. Where'd that come from? Oh, I see what's on television! (chuckle)

Mind Blogging

While it appears I have been lazy, lately, I actually have been blogging, its just not making it to the keyboard. Let me tell you, they have been some awesome posts, too! Probably the best I've never wrote.

Like last week when I went hunting for the first time in a few years. I used to go hunting all of the time. Its what you did that told you fall was here. When I went back to college I got out of the habit, just not enough time. This year I decided even if I only went out a couple half dozen times (what do statements like that even mean) all I needed was one bullet and one clear shot, right? The three bucks we saw were just as impressed with my logic, too. It was as fun as I remembered. Cold, wet, tired, hungry and after being awe struck with the beauty of the back eighty it got boring. Trudge, listen, point. Trudge, listen, point. Point gun down, bring up binos, balance gun and binos. Glare at chipmunk doing crazy mania chirp in the tree to your right. Jump a jazillion feet in the air when the three bucks jump straight up into the air one hundred feet in front of you. Drop binos, yell at hubby, "Buck, buck, buck, shoot, shoot, shoot!" Quarrel with hubby over whose shot it was. Track buck, buck, buck for five more hours through wet underbrush. Think about warm house, hot coffee, computer. Blog in mind. Blog about beauty of forest in mind. Blog about beauty of wildlife in mind. Blog about cold, wet, stinky, rain forest in mind. Blog about loud, obnoxious chipmunks in mind. Blog about backstrap frying over fire in mind. Blog about obstinate husband tracking deer that could be in Knappa by now in mind. Think about hot tub, think about warm woolly socks, think about flannel nightgown. Isn't hunting fun?

Mind blogging about the grandson, who is always underfoot, usually in a good sort of way. This week he is being a terrible, terrible two year old. Look Babika, look at this, its disgusting. "This" is my ink cartridge that he's taken out of the office garbage can, running the inky bottom along the arm of the couch and leaving a permanent trail. Mind blogging how cute he looked as his nose wrinkled up and mouth askew reminded me of his mother doing the same thing and the horror as I remembered that I would now have to throw out yet another couch cover and this house is supposed to be ready to sell at a moments notice. Look 'Bika, look at me, I'm prettier now. "Now" being that he has taken the permanent marker to make lines around his eyes either like his mom or, as his uncle insists, a football player. I think he was going for the Johnny Depp, ala Jack Sparrow, look myself. He does want one to know he is a permanent part of their lives. Blogging in my minds eye, this kid could make us mucho dinero if we could just get him on television (how original, no grandparent has ever thought that).

Mind blogging the father who has had a horrendous week with his meds. He keeps forgetting to take them, even when he's called, so he doubles up and takes anything left over at the end of the day. This led to hallucinations. Bad and freaky until we figured out what was going on. Blogged in my mind's eye an imaginary scene complete with a police blotter report of my father as a fugitive because he thought his house had been broken into and was now out on a vigilante quest, his joking stories of being a purple barrett suddenly springing to life!

Mind blogging the campaign? AAAACCCKK, no! Too much angst, even for a Harry Potter book.

Search through the fog bank now rolling in. Where were those really great ideas? The funny things you saw, you did, you wished you'd done? Think, think, think! I think I need a PDA for when I'm in the woods. Why bother living in the moment when I should be blogging about it, right?