Allyn's Alley is moving!

I am going to give Substack a try. To be honest, I hope that there, I can make a bit of money by eventually monetizing the blog! 

After today, follow me at http://tinaseward.substack.com.

I hope to see you there!

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

" . . . and they call it La Brutta Notte."

I work as a legal proofreader. My Facebook friends know that when I proof, I will often put up as my status, "Time to make the donuts!" a reference to an old Dunkin' Donuts commercial where the poor baker is running himself ragged "making the donuts." 

Yesterday, I did not make donuts.

Instead, I made a metaphorical pizza.

Yesterday I spent approximately nine hours (not consecutive, thank God!) working on a transcript that had an English-Italian translator. The deponent spoke Italian so a translator came in to help with the testimony. The recording I listened to was seven hours long. 

I'd already done a spell check and other things I could do without listening to the recording of the deposition, and I'd decided to set aside all of Tuesday to listen to the recording of the transcript and make the necessary changes. The transcript was due today, and despite everything, I got it in.

In Lady and the Tramp, during their famous spaghetti dinner scene, the happy couple is serenaded by someone singing, "they call it La Bella Notte." 

There was nothing "bella" about this transcript. I looked up "bad" in Italian and found the word "brutta," and "brutta" was exactly how it went. (Note:  This is not meant to be a dig at the people I work for. Since it's the legal profession, fast turnaround times are the norm. I've been proofing for about nine years and I'm used to getting stuff due in 24-48 hours. I'm privileged to be able to work from home and have flexible hours. Plus, the money I earn goes toward paying off debt, which I also appreciate.)

To begin with, I spent the first hour trying to get my printer to print. I eventually got most of the problem solved . . . except for, my printer now will not print a PDF file at all. 

When I finally dove into the transcript, it became an example as to why a 15-minute quarter in a football game does not last 15 minutes. I had to stop, make corrections, listen, stop, etc. and the mental effort required to do so took an especial toll on me. 

Adding to the frustration was receiving a letter concerning paperwork I thought I had turned in, but which apparently was not received by the party that needed it. The paperwork is on a PDF file, which, as I mentioned before, I can't print out because the printer has decided not to cooperate.  Me glaring at it and informing it that I have ways of making it work . . . well, is not working. 

There were parentheticals (notations made in the transcript such as (Exhibit 1 Marked For Identification) I needed to take out, and parentheticals I ended up leaving in because I didn't know if I needed to take them out. 

And all the while, the voice of the deponent pounding away at me in Italian and the poor translator trying to give an accurate translation. Fortunately, when a deposition involves two languages, the court reporter/transcriber/proofreader only has to worry about getting down the English. (The last time I proofed a deposition that had two languages, the other language was Urdu, which is a national language of Pakistan. My hat is off to anyone that can read/write/translate English and languages such as Urdu, Farsi, Dari, Vietnamese, etc.)  

I'd been awake since before 5 a.m., and at one point, needed to go lie down for about an hour because I was just plain exhausted. 

I finally finished the "brutta notte" around 10 p.m. or so, told my BFF I was going to bed, and went, fully expecting to have either dreams or nightmares starring Marlon Brando and/or Al Pacino, all set to the theme music of The Godfather. 

Well, neither Brando, Pacino, nor The Godfather soundtrack made it into my dreams, and thankfully, I didn't awaken covered in blood and in bed with the head of a decapitated horse. 

The final exclamation point came this morning, when I went to a doctor's appointment . . . and was told it was next week.

So, not only was it a "brutta notte", the "brutta" bled over into the next day! 

I was able to redeem some of the "brutta" by stopping at Walmart and picking up some needed groceries, and took a nap after lunch.

There are two more transcripts to do before I can relax and enjoy a long weekend. Fortunately, neither of them look like they will have an Italian translator. 

In the meantime, if you hear vague mutterings that resemble Italian from the direction of Atlanta, order me up either some spaghetti and meatballs or a pizza and have it sent to me. I'll eat it while watching The Godfather. 

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Chapman, Combs, and a car

On Sunday night, Grammy Award host Trevor Noah began a segment about country singer Luke Combs and the first song he learned to play on the guitar. Combs described it as “my favorite song before I knew it was my favorite song.” 

When the segment was over, the broadcast cut to a pair of hands — a pair of Black hands — playing an iconic opening riff. 

Luke Combs is White. It was not him playing the guitar. 

As the lights went up and the camera pulled back, the crowd roared. 

The iconic riff belonged to the 1988 song, “Fast Car.”

The Black hands belonged to singer-songwriter Tracy Chapman, who made her splash into the music world in the mid-‘80’s. “Fast Car” got to number six on the Billboard Hot 100. It also won her three Grammy nominations: Record of the Year, Song of the Year, and Best Female Pop Vocal Performance. She won in the latter category. 

Last year, Luke Combs fulfilled a dream and recorded “Fast Car” as a single. He sang it straight, not changing a word, even down to singing, “work as a checkout girl”. His version hit number one on the Country Airplay chart, making Chapman the first Black woman to have a number one country song with a solo composition. “Fast Car” also won Song of the Year, making her the first Black songwriter to ever win that award. 

When Tracy Chapman stepped on stage at Sunday’s Grammys and began to strum the opening riff of “Fast Car”, it marked the first time in nine years that she’d performed live. I don’t know if it was common knowledge that Chapman would be there along with Combs; I have not followed the Grammys for many years and I barely knew the names of some artists who were nominated. 

But that crowd roar, and then Tracy’s distinctive voice singing, “You got a fast car,” detonated a musical bomb in the audience of the Crypto.com arena. Her smile lit up her face as she realized the audience knew who it was playing the song. 

Luke Combs stood next to her. They traded verses back and forth, coming together on the chorus, “I remember we were driving / Driving in your car . . .” 

Throughout the song, when he wasn’t singing, Luke Combs was looking at Tracy, drawing attention to her. He had not brought an instrument. It was Tracy Chapman, with her guitar, and a couple of violins and a drum in the background. 

And in the audience, people standing up, clapping along, singing along (CBS showed a two-second shot of Taylor Swift singing and dancing). 

The energy must have been electric. 

When the song ended, Luke gestured towards Tracy and bowed. 

She bowed back. 

And the audience cheered. 

They cheered for an honest song that told the story of someone who wanted to “get out of here”, hoped for something better, and yet, in the end, ordered her significant other to “take your fast car and keep on driving.” 

In a polished world of autotune, glitz, red carpet glamour, and scripted performances, Tracy Chapman appeared in a simple, button-down shirt and blue jeans, with only the silver in her hair hinting at her age (she will be 60 next month). 

She slung her guitar over her shoulder and moved her fingers through the chords, performing like the artist she is. 

In the end, it all came back to the music. It all came back to a song that made a young woman famous, and a song that, 36 years later, still had the raw power to bring an audience - an audience with members who probably are jaded at times with the industry -  to its feet to pay tribute. 

“Fast Car” shows the power of a song to bring two unlikely people  - a Black female pop artist and a White male country artist - together. 

It showed the respect and humility of a White artist honoring a Black artist who impacted his career in ways he could probably not have predicted. 

The group Gallery, back in 1972, released the song “I Believe In Music”, which contained the line, “Music is the universal language.”

Sunday night, February 4, 2024, those who saw the Grammys saw an example of that universal language bringing people together, if only for those few moments. 

Thank you, Tracy Chapman and Luke Combs.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

‘Cause she’s happy . . .

Until Saturday, I had never been to a funeral that played Pharrell Williams’ “Happy” and Bobby McFerrin’s “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” on a continuous loop before the services began. 

The odds of my attending such a funeral again are rather low.

But in between lies a funeral where Pharrell Williams and Bobby McFerrin set the tone - or at least set the tone as much as they possibly could. 

Saturday, I attended the funeral of a dear 41-year-old woman named Valencia. Valencia was the daughter of a woman who often sings on our church’s praise team. 

Valencia’s middle name was Coniah, which means, “Strength of the Lord”. She and her family needed every ounce of that strength. 

Valencia was born with Down’s Syndrome. And no matter how much you hear about the “blessing” Down’s Syndrome children are to their families, they are also a challenge, as all people are who deal with a disability, whether physical, developmental, or otherwise. Valencia was fortunate to have a caregiver - a woman who bonded with her over many years while Valencia’s mother worked. 

Before that caregiver, however, she and her family had moved to Georgia from Oregon . . . and then they had to send Valencia to Milwaukee for her to get the help and education she needed. Georgia, at the time Valencia’s family moved there, could not meet Valencia’s needs. And although some things have changed for the better in Georgia in the care and education of the disabled, Georgia ranks near the bottom of the 50 states when it comes to services to the disabled. (A person can make more money walking a dog in Georgia than they can caregiving someone with a disability. That is criminal. Our minister has developed a heart for the disabled and those who care for them, and during Valencia’s eulogy, called on us to vote for people who would work for their interests. Didn’t Jesus talk about “the least of these”, and how whatever we do for “the least of these”, you do for Him?) 

Since the song “Happy” was written for the movie “Despicable Me 2”, and since Gru’s minions do have streaks of mischief, “Happy” was probably more appropriate for Valencia’s funeral than one might realize. One of Valencia’s sisters commented that Valencia was a “sneaky ninja” when it came to getting out of the house. She could figure out any lock put on a door. Eventually, her family installed alarms on the doors so they’d know if she was getting out. 

She’d also watch to see where stuff was hidden. I have a feeling that no hiding place was safe from her.

Back in 2004, Valencia was baptized, and her obituary testified to her love for God.  

Towards the end of her life, Valencia’s vision deteriorated. But if you said to her, “Hey, V,” she’d turn her face towards the sound of the person’s voice. 

When she was at church, not only did she have her mother and sister near her, she had a group of people surrounding her, making sure she was loved. 

After the funeral, Valencia received one more honor: a funeral repass (also known as a reception) that featured many of Valencia’s favorite foods, including chicken tenders and potato chips. I don’t know if Valencia liked chocolate or not, but there were several chocolate desserts available (and I had too many :) )

It’s become common to refer to funerals as “celebrations of life”; I think because “funerals” have a negative connotation. I do think of people weeping and wearing black mourning when I think of “funeral”.  

But this truly was a celebration of a person’s life; a person who lived, who was happy, who was sometimes a “sneaky ninja”, and who, in the end, loved and loved back. 

When people loved you, and you loved back, you deserve to be celebrated by two songs singing about being happy.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation. 

So why was MLK in Memphis in the first place?

It rained in Memphis on Thursday, February 1, 1968.

I grew up in the South, so when I hear that “it rained in February,” I picture a sky the color of gray putty and the rain just falling. Not being whipped around by the wind, accompanied by bright flashes of lightning, and then the thunder, the sound of which can range from a low rumble to a loud bang, and if the thunder happened immediately after the lightning, you knew that the worst part of the storm was right over your head. 

But in Memphis, Tennessee, as in all cities, the trash had to be collected.  So two employees of Memphis’ Public Works Department,  Echol Cole and Robert Walker, hopped onto the back of their truck and began their day’s duties. 

The Public Works Department gave them no gloves, no uniforms, and no place to shower. The smell of rotting food, the slimy grease from restaurants and homes, and perhaps the decomposing corpora delecti of mice, rats, and other vermin clung to their clothes, their skin, and their hair. 

By 4:20 p.m. on that Thursday, the rain had reached torrential status, with flooded streets and overflowing sewers. But Echol Cole and Robert Walker could not get off the truck to seek shelter.  Historian/writer Taylor Branch, in his book At Canaan’s Edge, explained that after complaints about “unsightly picnics” by the Black sanitation workers, the city barred shelter stops in residential neighborhoods. 

The only place Echol Cole and Robert Walker could go to protect themselves from the rain was into the back of the truck. So, into the back of the truck they went.

Cole and Walker may or may not have known that that specific truck was in bad condition. At least one fired sanitation worker, T.O. Jones, filed a complaint about the truck, asking it not be used. Instead, Memphis’ Department of Public Works - run by future Memphis mayor Henry Loeb - installed a new motor. To get the truck to work, workers had to jump start it and then let it run all day long. 

What happened next isn’t certain. It’s possible that a shovel crossed over some electrical wires, causing the trash compactor to malfunction. What we do know is that the trash compactor started and pulled both Cole and Walker into it, head first. 

Within moments, both men were crushed to death.

Echol Cole was 36.  Robert Walker was 30.  Both men were married. It’s not clear if Cole had any children, but Robert Walker left behind five of them, and his wife was pregnant with number six. 

Their deaths made front-page news in next day’s Memphis Commercial Appeal, but not as a banner headline. The story, with the headline “Garbage Truck Kills 2 Crewmen” was crowded onto a front page dominated by news of the Vietnam War and, down at the bottom right-hand corner, the announcement of the birth of Lisa Marie Presley, Elvis Presley’s only child.  

Cole had no life insurance. Neither did Walker. They couldn’t afford it. In fact, a sanitation worker’s pay was low enough to qualify them for food stamps. And since the City of Memphis classified them as hourly employees, their families received no workers’ compensation. 

Henry Loeb, now the mayor of Memphis, approved a payment of $500 to each man’s family. 

The cost to bury a body was $900.

Black residents in Memphis donated $100,000 to Cole’s and Walker’s widows. The United Auto Workers donated $25,000.

Ten days after Cole’s and Walker’s deaths, their union, Local 1733 of the American Federation of State, County, and Municipal Employees, met. Over 400 workers complained that the City of Memphis refused to provide decent wages and decent working conditions. The union wanted immediate action. The city said, “No.” (I wonder if they actually said something along the lines of General Anthony McAuliffe’s famous response to the German demand for surrender in December 1944: “Nuts.”)

On February 12, 1968, the sanitation workers of Memphis drew their line in the sand. 

Of 1100 sanitation workers, 930 didn’t come to work.  That included 214 of 230 sewer drainage workers. Of 108 garbage trucks, only 38 continued to move. 

Ten days later, the Memphis City Council - after a sit-in of sanitation workers and other supporters - voted to recognize the union and to recommend a wage increase. Mayor Henry Loeb, however, rejected that vote. Only he, he said, had the authority to recognize the union, and he was not going to do it.

On February 24th - after enduring mace and tear gas attacks by the police on nonviolent demonstrators marching to City Hall, 150 local ministers formed Community on the Move for Equality (COME). A longtime ally of Martin Luther King, James Lawson, led COME.  They determined to use nonviolence - as others had used in previous demonstrations - to fill Memphis jails and bring attention to the conditions of sanitation workers. 

Reverend James Lawson addressed the strikers with these words:  “For at the heart of racism is the idea that a man is not a man, that a person is not a person. You are human beings. You are men. You deserve dignity.” 

Not long afterwards, men in the demonstrations began wearing placards with the famous slogan, “I AM A MAN”.

During these difficult days, Reverend Malcolm Blackburn composed and recited a prayer he called the “Sanitation Workers’ prayer: 

Our Henry, who art in City Hall,

Hard-headed by thy name. 

Thy kingdom C.O.M.E

Our will be done

In Memphis, as it is in heaven.

Give us this day our Dues Checkoff, 

And forgive us our boycott, 

As we forgive those who spray mace against us.

And lead us not into shame,

But deliver us from Loeb. 

For ours is justice, jobs, and dignity,

Forever and ever.

Amen.

FREEDOM!

Martin Luther King arrived in Memphis on March 18th, encouraging the strikers with the words, “You are demonstrating that we can stick together . . . that we are all tied in a single garment of destiny, and that if one Black person suffers, if one Black person is down, we are all down.” 

King planned to return to Memphis on March 22 to lead a citywide protest. But that very day, a snowstorm hit Memphis (hiding the trash piles?). The protest was rescheduled for March 28. 

On March 28, after marching for several blocks and singing “We Shall Overcome,” Black men, carrying iron pipes, bricks and signs, began smashing windows and looting in the stores. Police pounced with nightsticks, mace, tear gas and gunfire. At least 60 people, most of them Black, were injured, and 280 people were arrested. When James Lawson ordered the demonstrators to return to Clayborn Temple, the church that was their meeting place, police followed them, then released tear gas and began clubbing people. 

During the chaos, police officer Leslie Dean Jones shot and killed a 16-year-old demonstrator, Larry Payne. Witnesses at the time said that Payne had his hands raised as the officer fired a shotgun into his stomach. (During a later federal investigation, Jones stated he saw a knife in Payne’s hand and shot him in self-defense. In 2011, the Department of Justice concluded that there was no evidence to prove “beyond a reasonable doubt that the subject willfully used excessive force when he fired his weapon at the victim.” Payne’s case was closed on July 5, 2011.)

After Payne’s funeral on April 2 (held as an open casket funeral in Clayborn Temple despite police pressure for a closed casket funeral held at the family home), sanitation workers marched peacefully downtown.

The next evening, Martin Luther King returned to Memphis. The speech he gave at the Mason Temple, we now know as the “I’ve Been to the Mountaintop” speech.

Who knew what was running through Dr. King’s mind? Did he somehow know that the end was near? That he would not see his wife or four children again? Did he confide his concerns and fears to anyone? Or did he keep his thoughts between himself and God? 

On April 4th, Dr. King, the Reverend Ralph Abernathy, and others on King’s staff left room 306 of the Lorraine Motel. (Abernathy would later tell the House Select Committee on Assassinations that he and King stayed in Room 306 so often that it was known as the “King-Abernathy Suite”.) They were heading for dinner at the home of local minister Billy Kyles. 

They would never make that dinner date.

At 6:01 p.m. Central Time, from a rooming house across the street, a man raised a rifle, checked carefully through his scope, then used his index finger to apply the proper amount of pressure needed to send a bullet straight into King’s body.

King had just told musician Ben Branch, scheduled to perform later that evening, “Ben, make sure you play, ‘Take My Hand, Precious Lord’ in the meeting tonight. Play it real pretty.”

Then the bullet hit King’s right cheek, broke his jaw and several vertebrae, and severed his jugular vein before lodging in his shoulder. 

He would die an hour later.

*****

Today, January 15, 2024, is Martin Luther King Day. I’m guessing that the two speeches that will be highlighted will be the iconic “I Have a Dream” speech and the “I’ve Been to the Mountaintop” speech. 

The media will talk about how for many, this is a day of service. What better way to honor a man of service than to do an act of service in his memory?

His children, Bernice, Dexter, and Martin III (his fourth, Yolanda, died in 2007) will remember him, and will also remember how their mother, Coretta Scott King, worked with him. 

I hope today, we’ll also remember why Dr. King went to Memphis that one last time.

He went there to reinforce the idea that yes, you do hard work, you do dirty work that few people would want to do . . . and you deserve to be treated like the men you are, with dignity and respect.

Robert Walker and Echol Cole deserved basic dignity and basic respect. 

They got neither. 

They were men. 

MLK wanted others to know that they, too, were men.  That they, too, were worth of basic dignity and respect. 

We all are.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Can someone gift me a HAZMAT outfit for 2024?

 I am not looking forward to 2024. 

It’s an election year, and we all know what has happened in the last few election years. Especially 2016 and 2020. 

On January 6th, it will be three years since a group of rioters stormed the Capitol building in Washington, DC and left in their wake broken glass and other property damage (including poop on the walls). They terrorized and traumatized the 535 members of Congress who were carrying out their duty to certify the Electoral College results. 

And to this day, there are those - including Donald Trump himself - who believe the election was stolen. 

This year, there is going to be so much mudslinging that I think I need a HAZMAT outfit to protect myself from the elements. 

The Presidential election is going to be bad enough. The vast majority of the GOP and the political media are predicting that Trump will be the Republican nominee for the Presidency. 

I suspect that, unless something very unexpected happens, Joe Biden will be the Democratic nominee. So we will have a rematch of 2020. (Bring your gloves, shake hands, and come out swinging!) 

There just seems to be this malaise hanging over the US that nothing seems to dissipate. Statistics show that inflation is down and unemployment rate is low . . . and that does not seem to matter. The media are holding their breath waiting for the stock market to crash and for another Great Depression/Recession, etc. 

I live in the Atlanta area, one of the places where Donald Trump will be tried for election interference.

And two states, Colorado and Maine, are keeping Trump off the ballot due to the third clause of the 14th Amendment of the US Constitution, which reads:  

“No person shall be a Senator or Representative in Congress, or elector of President and Vice-President or hold any office, civil or military, under the United States, or under any State, who, having previously taken an oath, as a member of Congress, or as an officer of the United States, or as a member of any State legislature, or as an executive or judicial officer of any State, to support the Constitution of the United States, shall have engaged in insurrection or rebellion against the same, or given aid or comfort to the enemies thereof. But Congress may by a vote of two-thirds of each House, remove such disability.”

I’m not a lawyer, so I can’t say whether this clause applies to Donald Trump. I am a legal proofreader, and between that, court reporting school, and maybe Law and Order, I might be able to score decently on the LSAT! To me, whether this clause applies to Trump should be decided by the Supreme Court, and I hope they would use the rule of law to decide rather than their feelings about Donald Trump. 

There are people I don’t talk politics with because it just is not a safe subject. And that saddens me. 

At the moment, we also have two major wars going on; one between Israel and Hamas and one between Russia and Ukraine. February 24 will mark two years of violence and bloodshed between Russian and Ukraine. 

On the home front, I find myself continually trying to balance work and running a house, trying - and too often failing - to write, and I badly need to take care of my health. Tomorrow I have my annual physical, and I may or may not need to assume the position in order to have a Pap done. I need to tackle my weight. I do have a Planet Fitness gym membership and will use it this year. 

The one piece of good news that stood out for me in 2023 was that we’re two-thirds of the way towards paying down my student loans. I’ve been seriously working at it since Matthew was about sixteen.  He’ll be 25 next month. 

The world may not be in the shape I see it in; there may be better things going on than I am willing to admit. 

But on the other hand, I sort of feel like Bette Davis’ character in All About Eve. 

To paraphrase her most famous line from the movie: “Fasten your seat belts.  It’s going to be a bumpy year!”

And please do NOT take your HAZMAT suit off. Because, if past events are any predictor of future performance, you will need it!

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Why to learn Hebrew . . . and why not to

On Tuesdays, with breaks for spring, summer, and Christmas, I meet with a group of women at my church for Bible study and discussion. This year, we did "secret sisters", where you draw a name, and then remember to pray for them and send them the occasional note. 

This Tuesday, we revealed who our secret sisters were. 

One woman in our study received a beautiful basket of scented flowers. On the front of the basket, the words "Love First" were written on it in Hebrew. The giftee has made many trips to Israel and has a true heart for the people there. "Love First" is the motto, slogan, whatever you want to call it, of our church, and she is one of the people who tries to live it out daily. 

What a wonderful reason to learn Hebrew! 

Both the gifter and the giftee were blessed. 

Now, here are reasons not to learn Hebrew. 

(Content warning: references to and graphic descriptions of sexual assault, sexual violence, and death. Please use appropriate self-care if you choose to read further.) 

A recent NBC News article covers what they call a "mounting body of evidence" of "gender-based crimes" committed by Hamas terrorists on October 7th. 

One of the pieces of evidence, according to Israeli officials, was a Hamas pamphlet they discovered which gave instructions on how to pronounce the following phrases in Hebrew:  

"Raise your hands and open your legs."
"Take off your pants." 

Israeli investigators are cautioning against using exact numbers of rape victims right now. NBC News quoted them as saying that "evidence continues to come in and that the investigation is likely to go on for months."

What they are finding so far is -- if the reports are true -- horrific.

• Female corpses tied to beds.
• Eyewitness accounts of sexual violence
• Reports of women being repeatedly raped repeatedly, their bodies mutilated while still alive.
• Women shot in the breasts and in the vagina.
• Terrorists allegedly having sex with dead bodies. 
• Women bleeding from between their legs.
• Bodily mutilation of private parts, both women's and men's.  

I am sick just writing this. 

At the moment, investigators just aren't sure of the scale of sexual violence. They are moving slowly and carefully to make sure they have a thorough investigation.

But during videotapes of Hamas terrorists being interrogated, they, according to NBC News, talked about rape of women and children as a "Hamas tactic of war." One Hamas militant was quoted, "To have our way with them, to dirty them, to rape them." (NBC News noted that they could not independently identify the authenticity of the videos, and that "officials declined to provide unedited versions of the interrogations.)

Yes, rape is not only a crime, not only an act of violence, but a weapon of war, mostly utilized against women and children. 

And before anyone says to me, "But what about crimes that Israelis have committed against Palestinians?" I'm not doing an overview of the history of the Middle East since 1948, when Israel was founded as a nation. In this specific case, Hamas started the war.  

If reports are accurate, Hamas invaded Israeli territory. Hamas murdered people. Hamas attacked people. Hamas raped people. Hamas kidnapped people and dragged them back to Gaza, through their network of tunnels. The youngest hostage is a baby, 10 months old, and I have not heard if the baby is alive or dead. 

It is a wonderful thing to learn Hebrew to communicate a message of "love first."

It is a brutal, sickening thing to learn Hebrew in order to violently assault someone. 

Last night was the first night on Hanukkah. Since around 2008-2009, at the urging of my son (who is autistic and learned about "December holidays" in school) we have celebrated our own version of Hanukkah. We light our menorah and read from a book that talks about the history of Hanukkah. 

There are three prayers said on the first night of Hanukkah (from www.chabad.org): 

• Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the universe, who has sanctified us with His commandments and commanded us to kindle the Hanukkah light.
• Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the universe, who performed miracles for our forefathers in those days, at this time.
• Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the universe, who has granted us life, sustained us, and enabled us to reach this occasion.

Too many Jews were not enabled to reach Hanukkah at this time. This year, not only have the survivors lit Hanukkah candles, they have lit candles for their dead and sat shiva.

A Jewish friend of mine says that the celebrating of Hanukkah is also the celebration of hope. 

I pray he is right. 

People should learn Hebrew to communicate "love first". 

Not, "take off your pants."

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation. 

•  

The pain of the “r” word

(Content warning:  References to and some usage of language now considered offensive, especially to the disabled population.) 

Last week, although I carried on and participated in life, I was assaulted by memories of being called “retarded”. 

I don’t know if this was what triggered it, but a poster on Twitter/X commented that he was glad that he didn’t hear “the ‘r’ word” anymore. He also mentioned that the only place he saw it was in a recent thread of people defending their right to use it. (I remember, but cannot find, a post saying, “I choose to use the word because I choose to use the word.”) 

“Retarded” was commonly used 40, 50 years ago to describe those who are intellectually disabled. The word itself means “a holding back or slowing down; to delay or impede the development or progress of.” (From Merriam-Webster’s online dictionary.) 

In a psychology class I took in high school, our teacher (this would have been around 1980-81) ran through the IQ labels used at the time:  0-25 was “idiot”, 25-50 was “imbecile”, 51-70 was “moron”, 70-80 was “borderline deficiency”, 80-90 was “dullness”, 90-110 was “average”, 110-120 was “superior”, 120-140 was “very superior”, 140 and above was “genius.”

Somewhere along the way, “idiot,” imbecile,” “moron”, and “retarded” all became slurs and insults. The teacher who ran through the IQ labels *had* to know that people in her class would use these to insult others. If I remember correctly, there was plenty of snickering during that particular lesson. 

I can’t remember when I first got called “retarded”. I’m not retarded, or intellectually disabled; in fact, I participated in a gifted program in middle school and graduated as number four in my high school class (I was the top girl and if I had taken some harder math classes, I might have scored higher. :) ) 

As a kid, people knew I was smart; but my social skills weren’t the world’s best. I really did not know, at the ages of five and six, how to approach other kids and introduce myself, ask, do you want to play? etc. I was able to make friends; I can name you who was my best friend at a particular point in life. But apparently, I was marked early on as an easy target; and the trap was sealed with these three data points:  1. Being told to “ignore them”, 2. Being given the impression that if I fought back, I would be punished at school and the bullies would not be; 3. The Bible said you were supposed to love your enemies and forgive them.

In sixth grade, someone at the bus stop said, “Didn’t Tina’s bus already come? The PARC bus?” PARC was Pinellas (County) Association for Retarded Children. 

But it was one boy’s constant chant, “Tina’s re-tar-ded,” that stuck with me all last week for some reason. He would just never stop. And even if I had turned around and punched him, again, I might have been the one who got into trouble. And who knows how much worse things would have gotten. (My parents finally pulled me off the school bus in 12th grade after I snapped and punched someone in the back. I was then asked, “Hey, Tina, why don’t you ride the bus anymore?”)

Last week, I functioned, I did the stuff that I needed to do . . . and I still kept hearing the person’s voice in my head, “Tina’s re-tar-ded.”

When I told my counselor about it a couple of days ago, I realized that I hadn’t fallen apart; I had still done what I needed to do, but the question underneath my memories of being called “retarded”, of having my books stolen, of having my shoes thrown in the trash, of having embarrassing questions flung at me, of having someone deliberately *not* giving me an assignment paper that the teacher had asked him to pass out to everyone (with him saying the words, “you don’t deserve one”), of having someone snatch my paper and copy answers from it (where I should have told a teacher but didn’t, because I’d already been beaten down enough; this was 8th grade when this happened), having my wallet stolen, having a person ask a guest speaker — and making sure I could hear them — what was wrong with a person who didn’t talk in class (because I didn’t talk in class unless I was answering a teacher’s question), being asked, “Your little sister drinks milk from your breasts, doesn’t she?” (implication being, you’ve had a kid and you’re pretending she’s your sister; for the record, I didn’t have a little sister and I had my only child when I was 35); having someone try to force a ring on my finger, being kicked under a lunch table, being accused of misbehaving at the lunch table when I didn’t . . . underneath all of that, and other incidents I haven’t mentioned, is the question:  “What in the world did I do that was so horrible that you decided to make me the target of your bullying?” 

The counselor pointed out that what I was doing was trying to make sense of what was going on, which was normal. 

I also said that I considered myself — and my husband, to an extent — intellectually smart but emotionally stupid. We’re very good with facts and data. We’re not the world’s best when it comes to relating to people.  I’ve changed a lot since I’ve been in my current church; I am a lot better at talking to people I don’t know but I tend to ramble at times. I think that comes from anxiety. My husband, if given his head, will talk and talk about what he’s interested in and his opinion on certain events, and I don’t think he always knows when it’s appropriate or not appropriate to insert his opinion. He and I have talking about what we call “know it all-itis” and he’s working on it. I have “know it all-itis” as well, to an extent. 

Since my son was diagnosed with autism at the age of three, I’ve wondered if my husband’s genes and my genes combined to wire his brain so that he is autistic. I’ve wondered if my husband and I have a touch of autism, and maybe that is why we came across the way we came across. 

My husband coped by digging deep into history, especially military history (he told me he got bored after hearing the beginning of American History for the third grade in a row) and playing Dungeons and Dragons and other board games with people. 

I coped by creating imaginary friends and using my Barbie dolls to act out some stories; I created a fictional rock group that also solved mysteries (see episodes of Josie and the Pussycats!); I read a lot of Nancy Drew and made up mystery stories. My favorite part of 6th grade English was Fridays when we did creative writing. 

But I admit, how much healthier would I be if I had never been exposed to the bullying, or if I’d been able to defend myself? 

Those who defend the use of the “r word” ignore the pain and the hurt it causes when it is hurled as an insult and a slur. The “r word”, and the other words used to describe intellectual levels, are mostly used these days as a way to insult and hurt people; not as a way to identify disabilities and then find a way to help others reach their potential as people. They’re used to dehumanize and depersonalize others. (If anyone has watched the movie Hotel Rwanda, the beginning of the movie shows a radio broadcast where the Tsuti minority were referred to as “cockroaches”. We in the USA have our own history with dehumanization of not only the intellectually disabled, but non-White ethnic and racial minorities.) 

Do we want to keep doing this? 

Do we really want to keep the “r-word” and other insults alive?

Do we really want to have an excuse to use words that may not have been designed to hurt but that have been used to hurt, to insult, to slander others? 

And if we do, why? 

Why would we want to subject people to the pain of the “r word”? 

Why? 

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

In the park, but not on Saturday

 On Friday, October 13th, 2023 (yes, a Friday the 13th!) I fulfilled an item on my bucket list. 

I went to Central Park in New York City and spent about three hours there with my husband. 

We only did half the park, entering at 59th Street/Columbus Circle, and going all the way to the Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis Reservoir before turning around. 

It still amazes me that for the price of a subway fare, you can hop a train, get off at 59th Street (or whatever other park entrance you pick), and just about 50 feet in, you forget that you are in the world’s biggest city, with all of its traffic noises, horn-honking, police-whistling, siren-sounding, and just the general noise, wear, and tear of a big city. 

Central Park is an oasis when you can find a favorite tree or favorite slope and sit down with a book, or journal, or whatever it is you’re doing, and do it. It’s a wonderful place to people watch.  There were at least two groups of kids doing some sort of play activity; I’m wondering if it was a school activity. 

We walked down the Mall, where statues and busts of famous people decorate each side of the walkway. 

We stopped and chatted with a man who was selling handmade note cards; he’d learned how to do the art during the COVID lockdown. And after wandering through the park, I’m convinced that if it can be made and sold, you WILL find it in Central Park! 

A man wanted to give a brief, free massage demonstration to Frank. He declined. 

Along the way, we were serenaded by a guitar player and a saxophonist; and there were probably other musicians in areas of the park we didn’t even hear. 

Central Park also has its share of joggers, bike riders, and walkers.  If you want to, you can pay for a pedicab and take a ride while the cabbie improves his overall health. If you have the finances, you can upgrade to a horse and carriage ride. 

Frank and I elected to walk. 

I specifically went looking for two very famous statues: one of Alice in Wonderland, the other of Hans Christian Andersen. Both statues are near life-size, and you are encourage to climb/pose/sit on/sit next to them. Around Alice’s statue are quotes from Lewis Carroll. She is posed with the Mad Hatter at his tea party. 

Hans Christian Andersen is posed with a quill pen in his hand, bending over an open book, with a duck next to him. He is reading/writing the story of the Ugly Duckling.

We finished our visit with a quick trot through Strawberry Fields. I was looking for a mosaic — which I found — with the word “Imagine” in the middle of a sunburst. If you listen carefully, you can hear John Lennon’s “Imagine” playing in the background. This is Lennon’s memorial; the Dakota, where he and Yoko Ono lived, is not very far from Strawberry Fields. 

Back in the late ‘60’s or early ‘70’s, a young singer-songwriter paid at least one visit to Central Park. Many years later, he described shooting some home videos there, and while viewing them, taking notes on things he saw and the impressions they left with him, and distilled it all down into a three-minute, 56-second of joyous, explosive celebration. 

The song that resulted, “Saturday In the Park,” introduced me to the band Chicago.

“Saturday In the Park” hit number three on the Billboard Hot 100 in September, 1972, the best performing of the band’s singles to date. 

My husband and I experienced some of the things this young singer-songwriter probably did during his time in Central Park: I didn’t see a man selling ice cream, but the park had its share of food trucks and plenty of people took advantage of them. 

There was a man playing guitar, singing for everyone (I found myself singing Bill Withers’ “Lovely Day” along with him). 

And there was the “bronze man” who could still “tell stories his own way”, which I understand is a reference to the Hans Christian Andersen statue. 

There’s a magic in Central Park that maybe you can catch in one visit; maybe you will have to go back again and again to truly experience it. Perhaps, if I had been younger or wearing better shoes (my feet were hurting and had been ever since a walk down Boston’s Freedom Trail inspired them to threaten their own Revolutionary War), I would have been able to capture more of the atmosphere that makes Central Park, Central Park.  

We exited the park at Strawberry Fields and, while trying to find a McDonald’s, walked down a street or avenue that was the perfect example of the neighborhood usually used in an establishing shot on something like Law and Order. It was a shady street where the steps to the houses/apartments run down to the sidewalk, the cars are all parked on the street and probably have to be reparked every so often; and had we been there later in the day, we would have mingled with the crowd coming home from work. 

All magic must end, and we had to leave behind the magic of Central Park and dive back into the “real” New York City, with its crowds, traffic, and the accompanying noises. 

What I did not know until later that day brought Central Park magic and my love affair with both Chicago and “Saturday In the Park” full circle, in a sense. 

Friday, October 13th, 2023, was the 79th birthday of that young singer-songwriter, Robert Lamm, who put a joyous day spent in Central Park to words and music and brought its magic to fans both old and new. 

So, on the birthday of the man that wrote the song that introduced me to Chicago, I wound up visiting the place that inspired the song in the first place. 

In a sense, that was, in the words of “Saturday In the Park,” a “real celebration.” 

If nothing else, it was a wonderful coincidence that topped off a beautiful day. 

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

I am 60. And I am tired.

 I celebrated my 60th birthday on the 16th with a long list of happy birthday wishes from people I know in person and people I also know online. 

I spent a portion of that birthday shoehorned into a Frontier Airlines jet flying from NYC to Atlanta; after riding a shuttle around LaGuardia Airport; after getting on the wrong bus at the New York Port Authority (we needed Terminal A, that one went only to B and C.) We spent the previous week enjoying both Boston and NYC because the 9th of October was our 30th anniversary. (I spent that day walking the Freedom Trail and by the time I was done, my feet were ready to stage their own “shot heard round the world”.) 

There are some good blog entries that I can get out of that particular week spent up North. 

But the day we left, October 7th, was the day everything blew up in Israel.

And on October 25th, 18 people died in Lewiston, Maine; which, according to the Gun Violence Archive, was the 565th mass shooting this year. (GVA’s criteria for “mass shooting” is four or more people shot or killed in a single incident, not including the shooter. Their website is www.gunviolencearchive.org.) 

I am 60.

And I am tired. 

I’m not the only one who’s tired.

First responders are tired. ER workers are tired. Civilians caught in the crossfire of either war or shooting are tired. Clergy are tired. Mental health professionals are tired. Survivors, and the families of those who died or survived a shooting, are tired.  

I’m sure I’ve left out groups of people who are tired. 

This week, I told a Jewish doctor to be careful. In Atlanta. In the USA. 

While my husband and I were in NYC, we saw several people dressed as Orthodox or Hasidic Jews on the street. I saw two pictures of young children who had been taken into Gaza as hostages. While heading for a subway, a young woman wearing a sash saying “Palestine” hurried past us in the other direction. 

On October 25th, at NYC’s Cooper Union, a private college, Jewish students were locked in the library for their own safety while pro-Hamas demonstrators pounded on the door. 

A CNN article I read today talked about the line teachers are having to walk when the war comes up in class. (As if “active shooter drills” are not traumatizing enough.) 

I have well-meaning people tell me to stop listening to the news, and you’ll be a lot happier. Okay, they probably have a point. While I did have CNN running yesterday and the day before due to the Maine shooting, I get most of my news from news blurbs on my phone.  And the more sensational the story, the more likely it will get news coverage. I am not in front of the TV or listening to news/talk all day long. 

But for me, ignoring the news is akin to sticking my head in the sand and hoping everything will magically go away. And it won’t. 

We’ve also just come off an embarrassing three-week political spectacle in the House of Representatives where nothing could be accomplished because there was no Speaker. Finally, Mike Johnson, representative from Louisiana, was voted in. Johnson, according to an Associated Press article, helped file a brief in a lawsuit trying to overturn Joe Biden’s election to the Presidency.  Make of that what you will. One reason I can’t totally ignore the news is because my husband is a federal employee, and Congress does take actions that may or may not directly affect his job (such as shutting down the government.)

Today I ended up taking a nap instead of doing needed housework. And I woke up with a headache. 

Right now, I will eat dinner and I have asked my husband for a back rub.

Because I am 60.

And I am tired.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Whose side am I on?

In 1931, Harlan County, Kentucky resident Florence Reece, the wife of a United Mine Worker organizer, wrote a song, “Whose Side Are You On?” in response to the violence surrounding the efforts of the Harlan County coal miners to unionize. 

I’m asking that question in the face of the latest conflict in the Middle East.

My husband and I took a 10-day vacation and just got back Monday. We left on the day the horrible news broke of the attack on Israel from the Hamas-controlled Gaza Strip. 

Since then, the news I’ve gotten has been mostly through the alerts on my phone. 

So whose side am I on? 

Should I be on the side of Israel? After all, the Jews are “God’s Chosen People.” And we are asked to “pray for the peace of Jerusalem” (Psalm 122:6). 

Should I be on the side of Hamas and the Palestinians in the area? After all, Israel has occupied Palestinian territories, and they have imposed a blockade on the border with Gaza.

For me, right now I can’t say I’m totally on one side or totally on the other. 

Jews have suffered terribly throughout history, and what I just wrote is an understatement. Go back to the Old Testament, and you will see their slavery in Egypt, their near-massacre in the book of Esther, their exile into Babylon and their return. 

From history, you will see the story of the Maccabees, who fought for Jewish freedom; and you will also see the destruction of the Temple in 70 A.D. 

The history of the Jewish people has, too often, been intertwined with violence and persecution. 

I do know that the modern state of Israel was formed in 1948.

I do know there are those who don’t believe in “Israel’s right to exist.” 

But I’m not Jewish, nor am I Palestinian. I don’t live there. I’m worried that if I open my mouth in support of one government versus another, I will show my ignorance of what’s led to this current conflict. 

Florence Reece asked, “Whose side are you on?”

I’m on the side of the people who had no say in this current conflict. 

I’m on the side of the Israelis who are enduring yet another conflict, another war (which Israel has declared on Hamas), missile attacks, bombings, and other weapons of battle. 

I’m on the side of the Palestinians who are suffering the effects of a blockade: no power, water, or ways to get food in. 

I’m on the side of those kidnapped and taken to Gaza against their will. 

There are so many who suffer during war.  Too many. 

And while the politicians run their mouths and the generals plot their strategies, and foot soldiers - whether they are enlisted in an army or swear allegiance to a terrorist group - the people who just want to live a normal life, who want to go to the grocery store without fear of being bombed, want to go to synagogue, or to church, or even to visit a friend without fear of a bomb or a missile strike; they are the ones that pay the price. 

I need to do more reading and listening to understand better why so much is going on in Israel. 

But I think I’m safe in saying that I’m on the side of the people who just want to live their lives in peace. 

For now, that is my answer to Florence Reece’s question.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

“Oh, my God! . . . The entire building has collapsed.”

Journalist Don Dahler is a military brat, familiar with the sound of planes. 

So when he heard the roar and then the crash, his first thought was, I think that was a missile.

The reports began almost immediately: a small plane had hit the north tower of the World Trade Center.

Dahler knew that what he’d heard was not a small plane. 

His journalistic instincts kicked in, and he grabbed his phone, dashed out to his fire escape - which gave him a clear view of the Twin Towers - and called into ABC’s Good Morning America. Dahler, at the time, was a correspondent for ABC. 

For the next several minutes, he described the scene unfolding before him: more and more fire and smoke, and his assertion that the hole in the north tower was too big for it to have been made by a small commuter plane.

At 9:03 a.m., with Charles Gibson and Diane Sawyer commenting on the pictures they were seeing, and stressing that they were reporting speculation and that they knew little at the moment, Don Dahler said: 

“Well, we’re seeing - it appears that the - there is more and more fire and smoke enveloping the very top of the building, and as fire crews descending on this area, it — it does not appear that there’s any kind of an effort up there yet. Now remember - oh, my God!” 

Don Dahler had just seen United Flight 175 hit the south tower of the World Trade Center. 

Not only did he viscerally react, the studio crew cried out in astonishment and Diane Sawyer gasped, “My God!” under her breath. 

It was the moment Don Dahler and everyone else knew that this was not an accident, that it was a deliberate attack. Dahler could not see the plane hit the building from where he stood but he could see the explosion. 

From then on, Dahler kept his eyes and ears on the Twin Towers, as best he could. 

At 9:58 a.m., Peter Jennings looked at the screen and said, “We now have - what do we have?  We don’t . . . now, it may be that something fell off the building.  It may be that something has fallen, but we don’t know, to be perfectly honest.”

Then Jennings said that “Stan Dahler” was “down in the general vicinity” and asked, “Dan, can you tell us what happened?” (To be fair, Peter Jennings was trying to sort through information coming fast and furious and trying to keep his composure while doing it.)

Then came the following exchange:  

Dahler:  “Yes, Peter, it’s Don Dahler down here, I’m four blocks north of the World Trade Center.  The second building that was hit by the plane has just completely collapsed. The entire building has just collapsed, as if a demolition team set off — when you see the old demolitions of these old buildings. 

Unknown speaker: “My God.”

Dahler:  “It came down on itself and it is not there anymore.”

Jennings: “Thanks very much, Dan.”

Dahler: “— completely collapsed.”

Jennings: “The whole side has collapsed?”

Dahler: “The whole building has collapsed.”

Jennings: “The whole building has collapsed?”

Dahler: “The building has collapsed.”

Jennings: “That’s the southern tower you’re talking about.”

Dahler: “Exactly. The second building that we witnessed the airplane enter has been — the top half had been fully involved in flame.  It just collapsed. There is panic on the streets, thousands of people running up Church Street, which is what I’m looking out on, trying to get away.  But the entire — at least as far as I can see, the top half of the building, at least half of it, I can’t see below that — half of it just started with a gigantic rumble, folded in on itself, and collapsed in a huge plume of smoke and dust.”

When the tape was re-racked and Jennings took a look at the building falling, all he could say in reaction was a quiet, “My God.”

I don’t know if there is anything else that someone could say in the face of a 110-story building crumbling to the ground, not because of an accident, but because someone deliberately wanted to do it. 

What do you say when you’re on the air and it’s your job to report the news as you see it and understand it? 

I give both Don Dahler and Peter Jennings kudos for not totally “losing it” on the air; knowing that they had to stay professional and calm, that the country would be taking their cue of how to react from the people they saw on the air. 

In an interview CBS News did with Dahler (then a reporter for CBS) on the 10th anniversary of 9/11, he said that for the next two weeks, he didn’t leave the area, fearing that the police wouldn’t let him back in. 

He remembers the faces and voices of the rescuers, those who dove in head first, the ones who ran upstairs when everyone else was running downstairs. 

He also remembers the faces and voices of people looking for loved ones, the expressions on their faces and in their eyes begging, please, tell me you saw this person alive. Please tell me they’re okay. 

Don Dahler could never answer “yes” to that last question. 

And it’s why he can’t forget it. 

In addition to being a reporter, Dahler has written three novels and a biography, Fearless, about Harriet Quimby, the first American woman to earn a pilot’s license. 

Today, many like myself will take a peek at 9/11 coverage. They may remember all the events and the times they happened: the North Tower hit at 8:46 a.m., the South Tower hit at 9:03 a.m.; the Pentagon hit at 9:37 a.m.; the South Tower collapsing at 9:59 a.m.; the North Tower collapsing at 10:28 a.m. 

Those who lost loved ones will stop and remember.

And those who saw and heard those images and showed us will remember. 

Including Don Dahler, who thought he heard a missile, looked outside . . . and probably reflected the feelings of millions of viewers with his exclamation of, “Oh, my God!” and then repeating, “The whole building has collapsed” to an incredulous world.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

 

So why didn’t God answer my prayer?

 This coming Monday marks the 30th anniversary of my father’s death from ALS. 

Exactly four weeks later, I got married. 

In the years between my dad’s death and now, I’ve kicked myself for not getting married sooner so my father could see me get married and I’ve also been angry at God for allowing my father to die at the time he died. 

Daddy was diagnosed at the end of 1991. I learned of his diagnosis on February 29, 1992. (I even still remember the drive home; I’d had to work that Saturday and I remember taking State Road 826 north in Dade County, Florida; I drove by the Office Depot sign in Hialeah, took my exit, and arrived at my parking lot.) 

The answering machine was flashing when I got home on that February day. It was my mother; I called her back, Daddy answered, saying, I haven’t heard from you in a while; and after a short chat, he handed the phone to Mom . . . who said six words that ended my life as I knew it up to that point. 

“Your father has Lou Gehrig’s disease.”

My reaction: “Oh, my God!” 

We talked for a while, and then after I hung up, I was on the phone for the next hour with my now-husband and my two best friends. 

My husband and I had been dating since 1987. In fact, he proposed on Valentine’s Day 1990; and I was shocked. It was something I had not expected, and after a long conversation, we decided it wasn’t a good time right now. And I believe we made the right decision, because I started developing the disease I have now, interstitial cystitis, and trying to plan a wedding in the middle of navigating my own health struggle would have been difficult. 

When husband proposed again in May of 1993, I accepted. And one of the first things I thought of was, please let my father live long enough to see me get married. 

I prayed for God to heal my father. I prayed for him to live long enough to see me get married. 

Neither of those things happened.  

My sister called me on September 11th and told me that they didn’t think it would be much longer. 

I called my husband after that, in minor hysteria. I called a couple of friends, and friends called me. 

But in the middle of that hysteria, I suddenly had a moment of clarity and said, “But God, if you’re going to take him, take him quickly and please let it be as peaceful as possible.”

That night, I heard the phone ring but didn’t answer it.  I was in bed and didn’t feel like getting the phone. 

Mom called the next morning and told me, “Your Daddy’s gone.” 

I immediately called my husband, who came and said, I’ll either drive you or take you to the airport. You’re not driving alone. (He drove me.)

One of the more surreal experiences of my life was accepting congratulations on my engagement with my father’s coffin around ten feet away. I mean, how do you celebrate what should be a happy time in your life when you are in such close proximity to your father’s body? 

Not only that, I made a phone call from my parents’ house regarding my bridesmaids’ dresses.  I think I may given information over the phone; I know I told them we’d had an emergency in the family. 

The funeral was on September 15. My husband and I left the next day and I immediately plunged back into planning a wedding. That wedding happened on October 9th. On October 11th, a month to the day after my father died, I boarded a plane to Cancun, Mexico, for my honeymoon. 

Since then, like I’ve said above, I’ve wondered why God said “no” to my prayer for “let my dad live long enough to see me get married.” 

In my nastier moments, I wonder if God was just mad and he wanted to punish me for some reason. But when I think about God as being kind, compassionate, and loving, I just can’t see him doing something like this just because he was in a bad mood. 

But if God is kind, compassionate, and loving, why did he let my father die when he did and how he did?

Then I’ve also told myself, you should have gotten married earlier. You should have pushed your husband into having a wedding earlier. 

There were two reasons I didn’t do that: 1. I didn’t think that “letting my dad see me get married” was a good enough reason to push my husband into marriage, and 2. I knew someone who’d been in a similar position - in her case, her mother had cancer and the girl got engaged not too long afterwards - and right after the honeymoon, the girl I knew left her husband. (I’ve since learned that there were other circumstances involving the couple’s relationship that probably led to their divorce.) But at the time, I thought, “So and so got married when her mother was so sick, and look what happened. Do I want to do the same thing?” 

After 30 years, I have no solid answers to, why did God allow all of this to happen the way it did and how it did? The only solid answer I really have is: I don’t know. 

The longer I am a Christian, the more I believe that the most humble and honest answer I can give to the question, why did God let this happen? is, “I don’t know.” I can come up with the Christian cliches of, “God needed another angel in heaven,” or, “It must have been God’s will,” or, “At least he’s in a better place.” I can give the broad answer of, trials come to increase our faith, to prove that our faith is genuine, etc. But the specific answer of “why this trial, why now?” I don’t know. 

I can tell you that from the time my father was diagnosed until he died, I never heard him complain or feel sorry for himself. He never talked about being sick with me. He had to leave teaching, and when I asked if he regretted not teaching, he said, “No. It was getting pretty bad.” (I didn’t blame him for feeling that way.)

The last time I visited, in August of 1993, I had written down the directions from my parents’ home in St. Petersburg to the hotel I was having everyone stay in. I had asked my father’s younger brother, my Uncle Jerry, to give me away if Daddy couldn’t. His answer:  “I’d be honored.” Uncle Jerry would end up driving my mother and sister to Miami.

Getting them down to Miami would be the easy part. 

Getting them to the hotel would be the hard part. 

It took me one full paragraph to get them through a particular portion of Freeway Hell known as the Golden Glades Interchange, where the following highways merge:  Interstate 95, State Road 826, State Road 9, Florida’s Turnpike, and NW 167th Street. So I was writing, this is the sign you will see, this is the lane you need to get in, this is the turn you will have to make.

When I showed the directions to my dad - who, by this time, had lost all power of speech - his eyes widened and he pulled the paper away from his face.

I burst out laughing. Because even though my father couldn’t talk, the expression on his face said everything. “All that?” 

The very last time I saw him, he was taking a nap and I was debating, do I go wake him up and tell him that I’m leaving to go back to Miami, or do I not disturb him? I’ll feel bad if I wake him up . . . but if I don’t go in there and it turns out I should have . . .

So I went into the bedroom, told Daddy good-bye, he gave me a hug, and when I walked out of the room, I said, “That’s the last time I’ll see my father alive.”

He would die in that bedroom about two weeks later. 

I am fortunate to have one of my last memories of my dad be a happy one. 

I am also fortunate to have his example of not complaining, although I hope he was at least able to talk to Mom. 

So why did God let my dad die when he did and how he did? 

I don’t know. 

The one conclusion I have come to in 30 years is that God is God, I am not, and I will not know until I ask God directly why he allowed things to happen the way they did. I jokingly refer to this as my “beef with God”. 

But God is still God. Even when a prayer does not get answered in the way you wanted it to be. 

God is God, even when your dad dies before your wedding, even when you feel cheated by the fact he never gave you away at your wedding; even when you realize he did not see his other daughter’s remarriage, even when you know that he has two grandchildren that he will never know . . . God is God. 

Right now, my answer to “why didn’t God answer my prayer?” is, “God is God, he is in charge. I am not.”

And I pray that I will remember that.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation. 

The Scoop on Scrupe

Merriam-Webster’s Dictionary defines “scrupulosity” as “the quality or state of being scrupulous”; “scrupulous” being defined as “having moral integrity, acting in strict regard for what is considered right or proper, punctiliously exact, painstaking.”

I, along with several thousand others, can add one more part to that definition:

“A manifestation of obsessive-compulsive disorder concerning all things religious that makes the sufferer’s life a living hell.”

My name is Tina, and I am scrupulous. 

While I do hope I have moral integrity, and I can be punctiliously exact and painstaking, depending on the task (I’m a proofreader, and being scrupulous is important there), I also have OCD that often manifests itself into scrupulosity, and it does make my life a living hell at times. 

The International OCD Foundation (iocdf.org) defines scrupulosity as “a form of obsessive compulsive disorder involving religious or moral obsessions. Scrupulous individuals are overly concerned that something they thought or did might be a sin or other violation of religious or moral doctrine.” Symptoms includ excessive concerns about blasphemy, having committed a sin, behaving morally, purity, going to hell, death, a loss of impulse control. Compulsions can include: excessive trips to confession, repeatedly seeking reassurance from religious leader and loved ones, repeated cleanings and purifying rituals, acts of self-sacrifice, avoiding situations where they believe a religious or moral error could be especially likely or cause something i bad to happen. Mental compulsions could include excessive praying (sometimes with the emphasis on the prayer needed to be perfect), repeating passages from sacred scripture in one’s head; making pacts with God.

I can relate.

The OCD I deal with is called “pure O”, the obsessive, intrusive thoughts without the compulsive actions; or at least obvious compulsive actions. I believe I’ve had this since I was about 14, when swear words started dropping into my head. I’m not a fan of swearing; but having said that, I have let loose with certain swear words on occasion. I had my first real bout of depression at around 14 as well, just a very deep sadness that I was drowning in. 

The scrupulosity began during a church service, where, out of the blue, I took the name of the Lord in vain in my head. I was horrified. I mean, this was church, and one of the Ten Commandments is, thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain! So I quickly said a prayer:  “Dear God, I did this! I’m so sorry! Please forgive me and help me not to do it again. In Jesus’ name I pray, Amen.”

Can you guess what happened after I said the prayer?

If you guessed, “she thought the word again,” you’d be right. 

I’m about to turn 60, and the intrusive thoughts have been with me for around 45 years now. I struggle with shame around what I call “the thoughts”. It was not until a couple of decades ago that I did a Google search on “the thoughts” and I discovered not only the subject of pure O, I discovered the subject of scrupulosity. It took me longer to admit that, this is me, I think this is what I have. 

I’ve been in counseling off and on since I’ve been in my 20’s. Every time I go, I peel off another onion layer. The woman I’m currently seeing has expertise in OCD, and together we’ve been talking about thoughts. 

I grew up in a church environment where I absorbed that thinking about something was just as bad as doing it; so you’d better not be even thinking about sex, cuss words, or other sinful things. Sex was something you didn’t even think about until you were married, because thinking about having sex was a sin (the same as lust.) Hearing swear words and reading swear words were bad, so you needed to avoid scenes where there was a lot of swearing, do not read books with a lot of swearing (I even tried to mark out swear words in a book I was reading) and do not look at the screen when there is a sex scene in a movie and/or on TV!

In my opinion, all of that backfired on me. Because even though I could stay away from certain media, it didn’t stop the swearing and other thoughts from running around in my head. And in college, I don’t think it helped that the church I was part of emphasized doing everything “right”. It was camouflaged as “doing it by the Bible”, but it came off as, if you don’t do such and such, or if you don’t do such and such in this particular way, you’re going to hell. And you were asked about actions such as, did you have a quiet time (a period of prayer and Bible study) every day? What are you studying? How many people have you invited to church? Why didn’t you invite more people to church or Bible study? Where are your visitors? Then the ultimate question:  Do you love God? Well, if you did, you’d be doing this, this, and this. 

There’s also a group of opinion leaders in my group of believers that believe in something called “precision obedience,” meaning, God has exact requirements and he expects you to fulfill them exactly. (I looked up that phrase a while back and the subject that came up the most was . . . dog training.) 

So, when performance is emphasized, and nothing is ever good enough, that produces an environment ripe for scrupe to develop. Did I do enough? Did I do it right? What if I didn’t do it right? I’d better ask someone to tell me if I did it right or not. The Bible says such-and-such, but does it really mean that? I’d better look up the original languages, the context, and the original audiences. But what if I get those wrong, too? God is pure and holy and he demands that I do certain things in certain ways. Will he send me to hell if I get his requirements wrong? I remembered something that happened when I was 10 and I got angry about it? Have I not confessed that sin to God, because I’m still angry? Have I not really forgiven because I’m angry about what happened? God demands that you forgive or he won’t forgive you. So if you haven’t forgiven, you won’t be forgiven. Did I just sin? I’d better pray now to be forgiven because if I don’t say I’m sorry and ask to be forgiven, and I die in that sin, I’ll end up going to hell. I read swear words in a book. Did I pollute my mind? There was a bunch of cussing in a movie; but I really liked the movie. Did I sin? And oh my gosh, you just thought a big bunch of swear words. Hurry and ask for forgiveness! 

It is exhausting living like this. It’s why I say that scrupe is its own living hell. It keeps me in a state of constant anxiety of “getting it wrong and going to hell”. 

So what do you do? Is there any hope?

One recommendation is, “just let the thought be. A thought is a thought is a thought. It’s dwelling on that thought that may get you into trouble.” 

So sometimes I will go, “hmm, interesting,” when a bad thought comes up. Or I may think, “That sounds like a good idea. Let me try it in ten minutes.” When the ten minutes are up, I’ve usually forgotten about the thought or decided, I don’t want to act on the thought. I read an idea that I’ve put into practice: give your OCD a name you don’t like. So, with apologies to all the people with the following names:  My OCD is Hubert, my depression is Elmer, my anxiety is Agnes, and my inner bully/critic is Bertha. They have signed an oath in blood to make my life miserable. They especially like to come to church with me. So I’ll say stuff like, “You go sit on the end of the pew while I listen to the sermon.” This past Sunday I told them to go sit in the balcony. With certain thoughts, I’ll take the idea to a ridiculous extreme.  That appeals to my sense of humor and reduces the power of the thoughts over me. 

Scrupe is not easy. It is a mental disorder that, as I mentioned before, puts the sufferer through a living hell. My counselor has told me that OCD latches on to the worst fear you can have and multiplies it. I wish my OCD fed on pictures of puppies or kittens or beautiful nature scenes or funny movies. Instead, it decides to feed on fears of “getting Christianity wrong and being punished for it.” 

I do not know of a “cure” for OCD that will stop the obsessions. Some people do use medication. What I am using is cognitive behavioral therapy; a “rewiring” of my thoughts, so to speak. 

And I also remind myself that God is a good God, slow to anger, abounding in love and forgiveness. I think he understands OCD, depression, etc. I don’t understand why I have to deal with mental illness and I would like to be healed. God, in his sovereignty, has not chosen to do so right now. 

In the meantime, I and my fellow scrupes continue to navigate this condition, this attack on the brain, knowing that we will never do it “right” and “perfectly” and learning to be content with our imperfection.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Lessons taught, lessons caught

It's been about two decades since my husband and I visited a Sunday School class while we were on vacation. 

I'm sure the teacher, as all good Sunday School teachers do, spent plenty of time preparing his lessons in hopes that his class would appreciate it and that they'd also participate. 

Unfortunately, I don't remember a single point of his lesson.

I do, however, remember that he spent the first five to ten minutes of class explaining who their church was and was not in fellowship with. 

The lesson I caught that day was not, I'm sure, the lesson that the teacher taught. 

Contrast that with a church service I attended some weeks ago. 

The minister of this congregation prefers to travel around the front of the church rather than staying firmly planted behind the pulpit. On this day, he was standing in the aisle, preaching, when a toddler came up to him saying, "Here," and holding out a piece of paper he'd drawn on. 

To be honest, I was thinking, where is this kid's mom? and expecting the minister to tell the kid, "not right now!"

Instead, he stopped, sat down on the floor, looked at the picture, asked the child a few questions, and then said, "Thank you!" 

And continued the sermon from where he'd left off. 

I'm embarrassed to say that I don't remember very much about the sermon that was preached. 

But I remember very well the lesson that was caught and not necessarily the lesson that was taught. 

It makes me wonder:  What are we teaching, and what are the people around us catching? 

Good question.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Jennifer Wilbanks, redux?

 On April 26, 2005, 32-year-old Jennifer Wilbanks disappeared from Duluth, Georgia, a suburb from Atlanta. Her fiancé, John Mason, reported her missing when she didn’t come back from an evening jog. 

Evidence including clumps of dark brown hair, clothing, and alleged murder weapons were later found near a retention pond. Since the police had no other explanation, they treated her disappearance as a criminal case. 

I live not very far from Duluth.  During those days she was missing, I drove by the parking lot of an abandoned strip mall and saw it covered with a sea of media trucks. Her case hit the national news, and why wouldn’t it?  It was perfect: young, beautiful woman, just days away from her wedding, goes missing? And the police think it was foul play? Let’s jump on it. 

I fully expected her body to be found. 

That weekend, I spent the night with some ladies from my church. On Saturday morning, April 30, one of the women jerked open the door of my room and yelled, “How about that Jennifer Wilbanks?” She was alive. She was in Alberquerque, New Mexico, claiming to have been kidnapped and sexually assaulted by an Hispanic man and Caucasian woman driving a blue van with ladders on top. I live in a neighborhood that is mostly Hispanic, and “van with ladders on top” describes a fair number of vehicles here. 

I was relieved. 

And then, Jennifer Wilbanks’ story fell apart.  She admitted to the FBI that she’d faked it, that she’d needed time and space to deal with the pressure of her upcoming wedding to John Mason.  Among other things, her wedding would have 28 bridesmaids. 

I was furious. 

Local and federal authorities, as well as the general public, spent time, money, and energy trying to find a woman they thought was in danger, and it turns out she just faked a kidnapping to run away from a wedding? 

She called off her engagement, pled guilty to a charge of making a false statement, and served two years of probation and 120 hours of community service. 

And the moniker “runaway bride” was slapped on her.

(According to a People magazine article dated August 5, 2021, Wilbanks married another man in 2010 and divorced him 11 years later.) 

After her return, the city of Duluth put up another sign over the one they’d posted with Jennifer Wilbanks’ picture and description, along with the number to call if anyone had any information about her. 

It was a picture of two feet in heels, running, with the caption:  “Case solved. Cold feet.” 

****

On July 13, 2023, a Hoover, Alabama woman, Carlee Russell, called 911 to report a toddler on the highway. Then she called a family member.  While on the phone with Carlee, the family member heard her scream.   

Police got to the scene within five minutes of being dispatched. In Carlee’s car, they found her cell phone, wig, purse, and Apple Watch. 

When Carlee’s disappearance hit the news, the social media world went abuzz. “Woman finding abandoned toddler” is allegedly a prime way to kidnap women and either sexually assault them or sell them to a sex trafficker. A woman gone missing under suspicious circumstances is - or should be - a priority for the police, and from what I have read of the case, the police jumped on it quickly. 

Social media also played a part in drawing attention to Carlee’s case. And because Carlee is Black, many posts mentioned that the disappearances of Black women are not taken as seriously or investigated as thoroughly as the disappearances of White women (and unfortunately, that is too often the case.) 

I did forward Carlee’s picture on social media. But to be honest, something about the story felt “off”. 

Carlee made it home on Saturday evening, July 15th. Her family called the police and Carlee was taken to a hospital to be evaluated. She told the police that she’d been forced into a car and then into a truck trailer with a man that had orange hair, and also with a woman. She was taken to a house and undressed; then put back into a vehicle. She escaped while the vehicle was in West Hoover and ran through the woods to get home. 

Her parents, during a July 17th appearance on the “Today” show, stated that there were moments when Carlee “fought for her life” both physically and mentally. 

But on Wednesday, July 19th, the police said that elements of Carlee’s story just didn’t add up. 

One, they couldn’t find any evidence that a toddler was on the side of the road where Carlee stopped. Nor was any toddler reported missing. 

Two, an investigations of Carlee’s online history came up with the following searches:  “Do you have to pay for an Amber Alert,” “How to take money from a register without being caught,” Birmingham bus station,” “one way bus ticket from Birmingham to Nashville” departing July 13, “the movie ‘Taken’.”

Three, while Carlee was on the phone with 911 reporting the toddler on the side of the road, she said she’d stopped to check on him. During that phone call, she traveled about 600 yards; the distance of six football fields. So no, she hadn’t stopped at all. 

Right now, Carlee herself has not confessed to faking a kidnapping. 

But if she did, it makes me angry. 

Faked crime makes me angry mainly because you have just made it that much more difficult for real victims to be believed when they do report a crime. Next time someone reports a missing person, will the family/friends of the missing person be believed? If the person is found alive, will they be believed when they tell what happened to them? 

Carlee Russell is a nursing student. Maybe she was running away from the pressures of the classroom, just like Jennifer Wilbanks ran away from the pressures of an upcoming large wedding. 

I don’t know why people fake crimes. Is it to cover their tracks? Or do they want attention so badly that they’re willing to fake a crime? Is it a cry for help from someone who’s desperate and doesn’t see a way out? Are they looking for sympathy?

I don’t know.  What I do know is that every faked crime makes it that much harder for real victims of real crimes to be believed. 

Jennifer Wilbanks now works in relative obscurity in metro Atlanta, according to the People article I referenced above. Unfortunately, her name will forever be linked to a fake crime. 

If Carlee Russell’s story is proven false, she, too, will be forever linked to a fake crime. 

Is that the sort of legacy you want to leave?

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation. 

Boxes in the . . . bathroom?

On June 13th, 2023, Donald Trump, in a scene reminiscent of the infamous "slow speed chase" of OJ Simpson, was transported via black SUV and a police escort to the Miami-Dade courthouse, where he was arrested, processed, and then escorted to a courtroom. He sat at a table, silent (and according to some reports, scowling) and watched as his attorney, Todd Blanche, entered a plea of not guilty to 37 federal charges involving his possession of documents that the National Archives had repeatedly asked for.

I'm not going to comment on Trump's guilt or innocence. That will be for a jury to decide. 

But I am going to comment on two infamous -- to me -- pictures of the boxes allegedly filled with documents.

The first photo shows boxes stacked on the stage of a ballroom. 

I believe that Trump held events in that ballroom, and when you go to Mar-a-Lago, I assume that there is a formal dress code. My walking shoes and jeans would not fit that dress code. 

So you walk into Mar-a-Lago, in a silk or satin dress probably purchased at Norstrom's or Bloomingdale's, wearing shoes that hurt your feet, ready for an evening of dinner and maybe dancing . . . and on the stage, you see a bunch of boxes piled up?
I'm sorry, but that's just plain tacky. It gives the impression of, "I'm sorry for the mess; we just moved in and we haven't had time to put everything away." Or, "We're getting ready to move and we're packing." 

I'd have a hard time concentrating on the caviar in that setting. I'd find myself staring at the stage and wondering, why are those boxes up there and what's in them? 

The second photo is the one that shocks me the most.

I'm a former librarian. One of the core classes I had to take was on document preservation; how to keep and store documents so that they are kept in good condition. This is why there are places like the National Archives and Presidential libraries, and why there are archives and special collections sections in university libraries. (I worked for a few weeks in Florida State University's subbasement, sorting newspaper articles into folders. If you want to be alone, it's a good job to have!) It's why certain documents are stored in acid-free boxes and why, in some cases, you have to put on cotton gloves before you open the boxes and read through the pages.  It's also why important papers are stored in climate-controlled rooms. 

So why in the name of document preservation would someone store boxes of paper -- especially paper with allegedly sensitive information on it -- in a bathroom?

During the coverage of the Trump indictment/arrest, one of CNN's guest commented that there were 33 bathrooms in Mar-a-Lago. I don't know how true that is. But when I saw that picture, my first question was, "Were people using that bathroom?"

Think about it.  What do you do in the bathroom? Usually you shower, shave, take a bath, use the toilet, brush your teeth, etc. 

When you shower, depending on how hot you like your water, steam comes up. 

Who here has ever fought mold and mildew in a bathroom?

Well, mold and mildew are caused by moisture. And that same moisture can affect and ultimately ruin documents that are not properly stored. Yes, mold, mildew, and other stuff can get on paper. And have you ever seen a book that was damaged by spilled water? You know how the pages swell up or crinkle up? Or stick together?

Do you want mold, mildew, or other water damage on the pages that may contain secret plans on how to deal with a foreign country that's just attacked you? (I can just see it now:  "There's a water spot right here at the end of this country's name. Are we supposed to attack Iran or Iraq?")

Not only is storing documents in a bathroom also tacky, it's just plain stupid. 

If Trump wanted to keep documents so badly, and if he'd been smart, he would have rented a climate-controlled storage area in someone else's name, or in the name of a shell corporation, and put all the boxes there. Not left them out in public for his Mar-a-Lago guests to see. 

Do we really want to trust the Oval Office to a man who cannot store important documents properly? 

In my opinion, we shouldn't.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

A happy funeral . . . and then bloody reality

I helped at and attended a happy funeral on Saturday, May 6. 

Then I came home and was slapped in the face with bloody reality. 

First, the funeral; then, the bloody reality.

My husband and I, on May 6, spent four hours at our church helping to set up and clean up for a funeral. In between, we attended the funeral. 

It was the happiest funeral I'd ever attended. 

Not because we were happy the deceased was no longer with us, but because we were celebrating a life that was lived well.

Keith Johnson attended my church for a number of years, and among other things, he sang on our church's praise team. Fewer people had a wider smile than Keith, and fewer people could encourage you like he could. So I think it was appropriate that the funeral began with a video clip of the three Johnson brothers, including Keith, singing "Mansion, Robe and Crown" at their father's funeral. 

Brother #1 ratted out brother #2 by telling of a time when brother #2 would "terrorize" baby Keith. One day, Keith settled the matter by taking a Fisher-Price toy and bopping brother #2 on the side of the head. Problem solved.

Later in the funeral, tears surfaced as one of the two brothers stopped in the middle of his speech.  The other brother came up to give him silent encouragement and the speaker was finally able to go on. 

Tears also surfaced when one of Keith's daughters spoke of what a wonderful father he was to her. Another daughter shared the same sentiments. 

Keith had been an athlete throughout his childhood and high school. But he developed heart problems in his life, and then later, cancer hit and eventually killed him. 

Despite his heart problems, I never heard Keith complain. He continued to greet everyone with a smile, and Don, our preacher, spoke about how Keith did the encouraging when Don would ask how he, Keith, was doing. 

I enjoyed the genuine affection and love the family had for each other and for Keith.  And not only did his family have that genuine affection, so did his friends.  So many people that I had not seen in months and years came to our church to honor Keith. 

That attitude of respect and affection overflowed into the reception after the funeral. Volunteers made sure that our fellowship hall was set up and filled with food. And we left plenty over for the family (I said to several people, they will not feel like cooking for the next few days.)  At one point, an elderly couple came up to my husband and me (we happened to be standing at the pass-through between the kitchen and the fellowship hall) and wanted to know if we were in charge of the operation.  We looked at each other and said, "Well . . ." The man went on to compliment everything as a "well-oiled machine".  I said, "Keith loved us, and this was our way of loving him back." (I immediately went to the elder's wife that was mainly in charge of asking for volunteers and told him what he'd said. She was one of those people responsible for that "well-oiled machine".) 

Exhausted after four hours of serving, my husband and I elected to forego cooking and picked up dinner from Chick-Fil-A. 

It was after I ate and was checking my phone for Kentucky Derby results that the first reports came in of a shooting in Allen, Texas, at a shopping mall.  I'm ashamed to admit that my reaction at first was, "Again?" It's mid-May and I have already lost count of the number of mass shootings there have been in this country. Midtown Atlanta, about 20 miles from where I live, had their own on May 3rd, just three days prior. 

Then I started seeing the casualty reports:   Nine dead, including the shooter; and at least seven wounded. 

And some of them were children. 

I turned to Twitter, which is often where I get my breaking news these days (which may or may not be a good thing). 

In the tweets dealing with the Allen shooting, I saw approximately 5-10 seconds of a video I wasn't sure was real:  a group lying on the ground, blood smearing at least one person's legs, and a face that I am not sure was open in an eternal, permanent scream, or that had the lower half of it blown away. This is allegedly a video taken of certain victims at the Allen mall, a very graphic and gruesome video that probably should not have been on Twitter in the first place and that took over 24 hours to get taken down. 

From a happy funeral, where I was reminded of the value of a life well-lived, I was plunged back into the bloody reality of sudden, violent, needless death. 

What more can I say? What more can anyone say? 

I refuse to say "thoughts and prayers" (although I believe prayers can help), but we're thinking and praying when we ought to be acting. 

I don't have solutions.

I'm at the age where I'm going to more funerals than I am baby showers and weddings. When I go to funerals, I want them to be "happy funerals", i.e. funerals that truly are a celebration of someone's life, where the preacher doesn't have to lie or gloss over the bad parts of your life.  

I do not want to go to a funeral that, while it may be a celebration of a life well-lived, was caused by someone who, for whatever reason, took a deadly weapon and senselessly murdered eight people, wounded seven others, and whose bloody reality was splattered all over social media for the world to see. 

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.