Tale of a Monarch

My father passed in March 2006. What my brother and I thought might be a bad cold or even pneumonia was actually a massive coronary that unexpectedly but quite efficiently swept our dad from our lives. 

Stunned, I remember standing outside the hospital and saying to my brother, "We're orphans."

 An odd reaction to be sure, especially for a grown woman with four college and high school children of her own. Having lost my mother a little more than a year before, the sense of loss and abandonment was overwhelming. 

In the summer of 2007, about a year after my dad passed, monarch butterflies started to appear around me in greater frequency than I considered usual, and in places I considered odd. I was not looking for butterflies, mind you - but each seemed to make sure I noticed it, fluttering close enough to demand my attention. 

One of the oddest places was right on the beach at Scarborough. Not the grassy area where wildflowers grow, but the breezy sandy beach. I've seen plenty of sea gulls there, but never the elegantly fragile orange and black wings of a monarch butterfly. Yet that summer, it happened a few times. 

The other oddest place was at work. On the north side of the TV station building is a storage area with double garage doors. The "driveway" area is completely paved with aging asphalt, and abuts another commercial property's paved driveway. There is a tall steel microwave tower, a dumpster, and chain link fencing. The only thing remotely green are scraggly weeds reaching up from cracks in the pavement. 

One pleasant afternoon that summer of 2007, I was outside enjoying the weather on a break as I edited some material. Sitting on a low concrete platform near the door, I was visited by a monarch butterfly. I had never seen butterflies in that area before - moths and other insects, maybe, but not butterflies, and certainly not monarchs. This one didn't just flutter by. It actually landed on my knee! It perched, opened and closed its wings a few times, then fluttered off. 

And thoughts of my dad immediately washed over me. 

I was stunned by the feeling - so strong, and so unrelated to where I was and what I was doing.

I share this very personal story with you because I just watched the full version director's cut of 41, a remarkable story about The Station nightclub fire's youngest victim, Nicholas O'Neill. If you can find the film, I invite you to watch it, too, and discover the ways this young man touched - touches - lives of those around him in unexpected and lingering ways. 

Directed by Nicky's older brother Christian O'Neill and Christian De Rezendes, the film's trailer is a click away. You can also visit the IMDb website to get more information.

Pawtucket School Committee Disgrace

I just got back from the unfinished Pawtucket School Committee meeting. I had heard and seen enough. The Pawtucket Teachers Alliance contract was approved 4-3, and includes a pay freeze this year (but the "steps" raises will continue, so the net effect is NOT a flat salary budget), and 2% in FY 10 and 2% in FY11. The Teachers Alliance also agreed to pay a little more in health insurance and increased office visit copays.

The "Gang of Four" who approved this contract - in a year where the Pawtucket deficit is $8 million - are Amy Breault Zolt, Nicole Norquist, Joanne Bonollo, and James Chellel. The three taxpayer defenders are Chairman Dave Coughlin, Joseph Knight, and Raymond Noonan.

Additional facts: the contract still had one more year on it - so the teachers did not have to come to the table, but they did. The total savings agreed to in this one year will be $2.1 million. Very commendable. *applause*

BUT WAIT! The justification I heard from the 4 school committee members who voted to approve the contract was actually just fawning and falling over the teachers - who far outnumbered the non-teacher people in the audience.

No one says the Pawtucket teachers - heck, teachers all over the state! - do not deserve raises. The job can be very difficult, with challenges few citizens or parents know and appreciate, and even more parents just don't give a CRAP about. (In many cases, it IS the parents who are the root cause of the children's problems.)

But that doesn't change the fact that - WE CAN'T AFFORD IT!

I love my four children with all my heart. But in this economy, birthdays are getting cut back and Christmas will have fewer and less expensive gifts. Is it because I love my children less this year? THAT'S ABSURD. It's because I can't afford it.

What is equally absurd is foolishly going into DEBT to give my children the same or more than I have given them in years past when my living expenses were lower and I had more discretionary income. I DON'T ANYMORE. So how is going further into debt doing them any justice? Does it prove I love them more if I spend more? NO!

I work for a non-profit. I haven't had a raise in years. And I don't have a pension. And what I pay for health insurance increased, too. I am definitely worse off financially today than I was 5 years ago. Heck, I am worse off than I was a MONTH ago! There isn't one single expenditure I have - utilities, food, fuel, clothing, anything - that has gone DOWN or even stayed the same; everything has gone up. Except my pay.

But I am grateful for the salary I do get! I am grateful to have health insurance (although, thankfully I haven't needed it)! I just have to find ways - sometimes painful ways - to balance my budget and not go into debt to keep up a lifestyle that is no longer sustainable. My lifestyle has to change to match my reality.

WHAT ARE YOU THINKING, SCHOOL COMMITTEE MEMBERS WHO APPROVED THIS CONTRACT? You are responsible for making sure your budget matches reality, too.

Nicole Norquist waxed on about how generous it was that the teachers agreed not to take a pay raise; they are the 3rd lowest paid in the state already. Pawtucket Police and Fire are among the top paid in the state, and their "give backs" weren't nearly as generous in their recent union contract negotiations. SO WHAT? You are not responsible for Police and Fire - mind your own budget!

I see. So, my neighbor agrees to go into debt to make her kids happy at Christmas... I should do the same for my kids?

(Of course, later in the meeting, Ms. Norquist realized she had just thrown Police and Fire unions under the bus, so she tried to back-pedal and diminished her criticism.)

And Mr. Chellel, "grant" and "Title I" money that pays for certain programs comes out of my left pocket while you're picking my right pocket. Your logic isn't logical - it's disingenuous. Unless that program money comes from a private corporate grant, it's still my money and my neighbor's money.

Government does not earn wages. Government - municipal, State, and Federal - can only TAKE money from the true wage earners to pay for what government does.


Take effective action; do not dig a deeper trench of debt. Every single School Committee in Rhode Island should unite, march on the State House and demand the cowardly General Assembly come back into session armed with machetes to make the spending cuts necessary to resolve the mess it refused to address this summer. It's not the Governor - it's the legislature! AND NO NEW TAXES.

1. Unfunded mandates are NOT mandates anymore; they are off the table - and off taxpayers backs.

2. Certain aspects of the outrageously high Special Education budget need to be cut cut cut. Schools are NOT respite care facilities or "warehouses" as one speaker said, where parents abdicate care of their children from 8 to 2. If your child has special needs for transportation to and from medical appointments, arrange for the transportation yourself. School Departments should get OUT of the transportation business to get your disabled child to and from the doctor or therapist during school hours. If your child requires a nurse mate or personal assistant to care for bodily functions and maneuvering throughout the school building, it is the parent's responsibility to arrange and pay for that special aid, not the school budget.

School's responsibility is to teach a child to read, write in proper English, calculate mathematics, discover science, learn history... you know the list. Personal care and teaching life skills are inappropriate in any public school classroom.

3. English as a Second Language... oh my, this elephant in the room. It would be far more effective to have all children with English deficiency go to ONE school only. Immersion. A maximum of one year for young children, whose language acquisition skills are amazing. Two years MAX for mid-elementary school children. Up to three years for middle-to-high school students. Career ESL programs are a waste of money. One or two English-learning classes are a waste of time. It would be far more effective to keep a child "back" a year or two to fully prepare them for success in an all-English speaking curriculum, than to continue kicking them up the chain to keep them with their "peers." If they can't speak and comprehend the language well, kids the same age are not real peers - they are only the same age! These children only struggle their entire school career chasing English proficiency they will never achieve, sitting in "mainstream" classrooms as only part-time English learners.

And finally, the time for municipal, state and federal employee unions has come to an end. Compensation - salary and benefits - for government employees should NOT exceed the compensation of the taxpayers who pay them. Abolition of government worker unions may seem like pie-in-the-sky, because unions have become so powerful in Rhode Island over the decades. But they no longer fight for worker justice against dangerous working conditions as they did a hundred years ago; unions now arm-twist and promise campaign contributions and reelection votes, in exchange for largess for their members, to justify their continued existence. Unions are outdated and have outlived their true usefulness. They handcuff administrators who could affect real cost savings, while enhancing efficiency and effectiveness. Unions "disincentivize" creative solutions and individual achievement by lumping together lazy sloths and productive workers, based only on seniority. Government jobs should be public service, not a plum career.

I am proud of the three Pawtucket School Committee members who - while they acknowledge and appreciate the work done by teachers - put fiscal responsibility ahead of emotional capitulation headlong into avoidable debt.

Independence Day

Every country has a July 4th. But only in the U.S. does that date mean Independence Day.

Thank you, soldiers, from colonial days until today. Thanks to them, I will celebrate tomorrow with my beloved friends.

Between the frankfurters and the fireworks, may you take a moment to thank them, too.

Let freedom ring and may liberty always win!

Happy Father's Day, Dad

To tell you about my dad, I also have to tell you a bit about my mom - their lives were so intertwined. They lived together almost twice as long as they had lived as singles; had my mother lived five more months, they'd have celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary.

My parents were immigrants. They left their village in Sao Miguel, Acores, Portugal, to make a better life for themselves and their future children (me and my brother). My mother came first with her father and brothers. About 2 years later, she went back to Sao Miguel to marry my dad in May, then returned to America. My dad arrived the following January.

Before they got their own apartment, my dad moved in with my mother in my grandparents' home and started working the third shift at American Insulated Wire in Pawtucket. A month after his arrival, my mother got pregnant - complete with a long bout of morning sickness. In this different, non-tropical climate, his blondish wavy hair grew darker brown. On weekends, he was expected to live the life of a day worker - chores, shopping, Sunday morning church services followed by big family dinner - when all he wanted to do was sleep. He had no family or friends of his own except his new family and their friends. Years later, he mused that in those early days if he'd been able to walk back to the Acores, he would have, LOL.

Eventually, he switched to the day shift, and worked 12 hours a day for years. He stayed at the same place until his retirement - about 40 years - making all modes of rubber- and plastic-coated copper wire. He never quite perfected his English - he didn't have to; my mother took care of the day-to-day details and he worked in a conclave of fellow Portuguese immigrants.

When I was 4, my parents bought a 5-room ranch - eventually expanded to an 8-room home when the basement was remodeled with a family room, eating area, and second kitchen - in Fairlawn, where my brother and I lived until we left the nest. Ironically, my parents bought a larger house after my brother and I each married; our growing families made it hard for my mom to have us all together for dinner, so a big colonial with a separate dining room was in order. : )

After my brother was born, my mother worked second shift at a mill. That pattern allowed her to be with us in the morning to get us off to school. We'd go to my grandparents' after school, and my dad picked us up there after work. He'd feed us supper, give us baths, supervise our nightly prayers, and tuck us into bed. Growing up, we didn't go on "vacations" but we went almost every Saturday night in summer to the drive-in. That was in the days of good, family-oriented double-features, and huge, fun playgrounds with lots of other children and families doing the same thing. To escape the heat of the city, we often went often to Lincoln Woods or Colt State Park on Sundays after church, to picnic in the shade and wade or swim in the water (it was so different then).

A fiery spirit, he blustered in quick anger - usually justified - then cooled as quickly. I inherited my unwavering sense of justice - and that cute dimple in the chin - from him. I inherited his temper, too, but that's a story for another day.

I never quite appreciated him as a man when I was a kid - he was my dad, after all, not a man, right? But one day when I was in my late teens, he and I were chatting at the counter about something or other, and the light from the open doorway shone just right on his face - without his glasses on - and I realized his eyes were not really just brown, but a beautiful gold, with flecks of color. I finally saw my dad as a man that day. He was quite a character. In his own way, he was a fun-loving and funny guy, and he was unquestionably dedicated to my mother, his kids, his religion, not necessarily in that order.

My mother retired two years after he did. They did some world traveling in their later years - finally taking time for themselves. When my mother was only 66, she started her free-fall into the black hole of dementia. It is such a heartbreak to look into the empty eyes of the mother who loved you more than her own life, and know she doesn't know who you are.

My father took care of my mother as she failed in her disease - a 24-hour obsession that would have broken most people. My mother eventually reverted to infancy - she had to be fed, bathed, dressed, and changed. She didn't speak, she didn't walk on her own... but he talked to her and told her stories, he walked with her, got her dressed up and took her to church every Sunday. Besides occasional hospital visits, he kept her at home until her very last day. After she passed on December 20, 2004, he was lost - profoundly lonely without his beautiful Evangelina. His broken heart finally stopped beating on March 29, 2006. Now I am the one who's profoundly lonely.

My brother and I began cleaning out our parents' home, dividing and dispersing the possessions they worked a lifetime to collect. Each drawer my brother and I opened revealed another fragment of their lives - our lives - that we know intimately, remember fondly, had forgotten about, or never even knew. It's an amazing journey. Drawers so orderly, items neatly folded or filed in short stacks. There were notes here and there in my father's handwriting - as if he knew he would have to guide my brother and me through all the sorting.

My mother died years before her body was buried, so I grieved in slow small ways, gradually. Although I scour the memory files in my mind, I can't conjure the last time I heard her say, "I love you, Lucie," even though she said it so often in my life.

My dad's death, however, still has me struggling. Responding to what I thought was a cold - pneumonia at worst - was in fact a massive heart attack, completely unexpected and very efficient; he died a few short hours after the ambulance took him to the hospital. My brother and I were there the whole time, holding his hands, stroking his forehead, watching in disbelief as this simple, humble, wonderful man with the strength of love of a dozen men, slipped from our midst.

I still miss my dad so much. Happy Father's Day, Dad.

Living on a "Fixed Income"

I don't know about you, but I'm pretty tired of hearing poverty advocates talk about people living on a "fixed income" - as if they are somehow different from everyone else.

How many people do you know with a FLEXIBLE INCOME? When gasoline shot through the roof and National Grid and New England Gas got their rate increases, my boss didn't raise my salary to make up the difference. Did yours?

I live on a fixed income, too! I work for a salary - no over-time, no bonuses, not even a raise or COLA because we're always on such a tight budget. My employer is bombarded by increased costs in every area, including health insurance premiums, some of which rightly had to be passed to me. Consequently, I technically make less now than I did 5 years ago. I'm not complaining, just stating facts. If you work for salary like I do, WE ALL LIVE ON FIXED INCOMES!

Another social services lie, brought to you by the moochers and looters who want to make what's yours theirs.

Critical Collaborator

My Watcher. MY Watcher. My WATCHER. I acknowledge her, embrace her, fear her.

My collaborator on everything from party invitations to short stories, she is a stern, pinched-faced mother, teacher, know-it-all. Physically, she is a figment of my memory, a tribute to ideal discipline from my early school years. After decades of training, she has raised procrastination, harsh criticism, and paralyzing editing to an art form. A perfectionist, her motto is, "If at first you don't succeed - and you won't - edit, and edit again."

Armed with her subversive philosophy, my Watcher imposes her very rigid pre-writing rituals. First, we must rummage through drawers for colored paper on which to write; yellow legal pads are her favorite. In an absolute pinch, white paper will do, but only if it is ruled (otherwise, how will she be able to cram her changes between, above, and below, unless the writing is in neat rows?)



Second, we hunt for a pen, but no mere ball point will do. She is partial to felt tip pens; the murderous slashes she makes while editing are bolder when inflicted with a Flair.



Third, the mandatory cup of coffee must be drunk from our favorite tall, yellow pedestal mug. If it's not on the shelf, she insists I dig it out of the dishwasher, since it holds the most coffee and we will need all of that caffeine.



When I finally start collecting thoughts and mapping out the general direction of our writing, my Watcher starts inspecting her surroundings. In less time than it takes me to write my name, she finds everything in the room that is out of place. Lips pursed, she runs her eyes, like a white-gloved finger, along the top of the television, where the dust, snatched out of the air by static electricity, adheres in silent, ugly recrimination. "You really should do something about this room before you start writing. Besides, it could be therapeutic: clear the cluttered room and you clear the cluttered mind." But my mind wasn't cluttered until she started talking.

Sometimes, when she and I reach an especially paralyzing impasse in my writing, I could swear that if I look up, she'll be Sister Mary Anyname standing there, cloaked in black from head to impatiently tapping toe, arms folded across the white cardboard chestplate, clenching a long wooden pointer. She'll be frowning, I know, eyes narrowed to slits behind glasses, a lipless flat line where her mouth should be.

But she's no nun; those are MY clothes she's wearing. And that could be MY face, if it relaxed. She is older than I, though. She must be. That would account for her vast experience and superior wisdom.

But then why, if I am younger, is my hair graying while hers is unchanged? Why should her perfect, ageless face remain wrinkle-free, while mine shrivels under her scrutiny? Why must I be the only one in this twosome who bears the scars of our constant battle?

Her answer is appallingly simple. "I am perfect and unchanging because you need me to be. Otherwise, your imperfect writing could never improve."

She continues, "Your need empowers me to drive you to perfection, an unattainable but admirable goal. The unrelenting vigilance for which you curse me permits you rent-paying tenancy in the neighborhood of acceptable writing. From our most bitter struggles spring some of your best works."

I hate that she's always right.

environMENTAL?

Conservative. "Tree-hugging hippie." Do they have to be mutually exclusive?

I don't think it has to be an "either or" choice. In fact, either extreme - loony left or radical right - is unproductive. Both extremes are harmful because they lack balance and perspective.

So, I guess that makes me a hybrid.

I do drive one - a Toyota Prius (I love it!)

No paper OR plastic for me - I use reusable grocery totes. I switched as many light bulbs as I could in my home and office to compact fluorescents. I haven't had a cut Christmas tree for more than 10 years... and...

and I love Michael Savage, Jerry Doyle, Glenn Beck, and the hosts on my local "conservative" talk radio station, the No.1 station in my demo. (It's also where I listen to Coast to Coast AM.) *grin*

I consider myself rather conservative: I believe you should take care of yourself and be responsible for the consequences of your bad choices and not expect the government to bail out your stupid ass.

In fact, I think government has way too much control over what we can and cannot do - and it's getting worse by the day. Particularly when it comes to taking my money from me and deciding how to squander spend it. I'm not a fan of this new "redistribution" philosophy.

I work for the local PBS affiliate, generally considered a liberal organization. Public television is also a hybrid - seen by other media and the public as a TV station, but not just that; it's a non-profit organization, but it's not just that, either.

I may be conservative, but not a Republican. In my experience, lightly scratch a politician until a small piece of the veneer falls off and you'll find s/he is a Republicrat or Democan:


Both seem hell-bent on destroying our beautiful country, differing only in how and how fast. The campaign leading up to the most recent Presidential election frustrated me because my hybrid candidate, Ron Paul, didn't get a fair shake in the "mainstream" media (I was disgusted and disappointed by their display, but not surprised).

I love and appreciate nature, and I try hard to be considerate in what I do and how I impact it.

I do not believe in the sham theory of man-made global warming, but I do believe it's cyclical earth changes.


Humans produce pollution that defiles water, land, and air; no argument there. But to think routine humankind is solely responsible for and in control of climate changes we're experiencing is just plain hubris. The sun, its flares, sunspots (or lack thereof) and solar storms have far more effect on the climate changes on our planet.

Gore's theory is just another form of brainwashing to control you through taxation. HUGE taxation on energy is already far along the Washington gravy train careening us toward poverty. *cha-ching!*

BTW, can someone tell me please how BUYING carbon offset credits does anything more than line someone's pocket? What good does it really do for the environment? Isn't it just a license for someone to continue doing the same bad stuff? (Plus make some people very rich in the process?)

*sniff sniff* smells like SCAM to me!

As a matter of fact, just yesterday, June 2, the Nongovernmental International Panel on Climate Change (NIPCC) released an extensive report (880 pages) "challenging the scientific basis of concerns that global warming is either man-made or would have harmful effects."

Of course, this does not account for the deliberate atmospheric manipulation (by governments?) to make, stop, redirect, and otherwise influence weather. Chemtrails, absurd and unnatural cloud patterns, and unexplained storm loops are just three examples of evidence of "man-made" climate change. But that kind of climate change is different from what you and I are being blamed for causing. That is far more correctly called weather manipulation than "climate change."

*sigh* Still, it's more lies, brought to you by the moochers and looters who want to make what's yours, theirs. 

* * * * *

A Little Inspiration

A while back I ran across this quote:

"We are not born brave and heroic.
It is the result of a decision we make
to live lives based on noble principles
inspired by courage
and impelled by commitment."


Wow. I loved it. But who said it?


Mr. Rich Ruffalo, a Paralympic Gold Medallist and Winner of the 1995 U.S. Teacher of the Year Award. According to his Web site:

At age 32, Ruffalo lost his eyesight but never lost his "vision." At the Walt Disney Company McDonald's American Teacher Awards, Ruffalo was named both the Outstanding Coach of the Year and the Outstanding Teacher of the Year for 1995.

Here's the full quote: "We are not born brave and heroic. It is the result of a decision we make when we choose to live lives based on noble principles inspired by courage and impelled by commitment.

"The essence of our humanity
is the spirit that lies within ourselves.
It is a reservoir of tremendous potential.

"When you tap into this potential,
you can move mountains...

"And even if you can't do that,
you can still drill right through them."



Double WOW!

Tap into your Power, friends, and start movin' and drillin'! Hugs and best wishes to you all.

Some Fitting Advice

Does this make me look fat? 

Once upon a time, when someone asked you a question, you were expected to answer honestly. Now? Political correctness: a prevalent form of coercive speech modification to compensate for distorted hypersensitivity (my definition).

 

... My feet hurt from walking on all these eggshells...

What, now I can't tell the truth? Then why do you ask me? Because you want me to be an accomplice in your delusion? What about sound judgment? What about rational thinking? Objective reality? TRUTH? 

You: Does this make me look fat?  

Me: Yes. Return it to the store and buy something that fits. 

There. Simple, direct, and honest.

But in the millisecond it takes to envision the look of horror on your face if I really say that, I've already started rummaging through my mental card file of politically correct and sensitive alternatives.

Politically-Correct Me (completely avoiding a direct answer to your direct question): "You know, I really like that black number you wore last week. You look great in it. Why don't you try that?" 

That works. You waddle off and change your clothes. 

Besides being dishonest, all this hedging and spin seems so… counterproductive. What good does it really do? You will continue to buy those slinky size 6s and stretch them over your size 14 body unless someone has the courage to suggest you start browsing a little farther up the boutique racks. 

Yikes – look at teenage girls. I suppose I should be glad they have such a positive body self-image, especially considering eating disorders and anorexia. But don't they have a full-length mirror in the house? How about a real BFF with a brain and common sense to share? 

Orange-peel jelly belly below a crop top. Saddlebags and thunder thighs crammed into skinny jeans. Maybe what they have is a fun-house mirror - the kind that distorts the image to be something it isn't. Something it definitely isn't. 

Even slender girls seem to have those mandatory "love handles" (don't get me started on THAT euphemism) hanging over the top of their pants. Why? What are they thinking? 

Oh. I guess they're not thinking.

  

Hellllllloooooooo, it's not called a 'muffin top' because it's yummy. It's overflow. Too much crammed into too small a space. 

Now, I have nothing against a size 14 body, don't get me wrong. In fact, one of the most beautiful women I've ever known was a shapely size 14. She just knew the secret: she wore clothes that FIT. I think women of all sizes are so much more beautiful when they do. 

Who cares about the size number? I don't wear the size tags hanging out of my clothes, and I noticed you don't either. 

So be real, be "fit," and be really beautiful. : ) 

The beautiful "Walking on Eggshells" image is used with permission from the artist (c)2009 bonniebythebay

A Mother's Axioms

The marvel of life is that it is a journey of continuous opportunities for learning, many times from the most unlikely sources. I am amazed at the education I have received from my four children. Each is unique in his (three) and her (one) approach, but their lessons have not failed to elucidate. Often, the lessons seem to contradict my long-held beliefs. However, their wisdom is worth sharing. Here is a sampling of the new axioms:

If you leave the empty ice cube tray on the counter, it will refill itself. 

The wallpaper looks much better when loose seams are torn away.
 
Painted woodwork makes an excellent drawing surface.
 
Toilets are not meant to be flushed unless the equivalent of a roll and a half of toilet tissue has been used.
 
Bedtime is a suggestion.
 
A drink of water tastes best when drunk out of a fresh glass each time.
 
Doors close best when slammed.
 
All chairs are rocking chairs.
 
Beds make the best trampolines.

Spills needn't be wiped up; they evaporate with time.

Chore time exists to renew fascination with neglected toys.

Blowing on the tops of furniture works as well as using a dust cloth.

The family room must be constantly maintained at a moderate level of mess to be considered comfortable.

For every toy that is put away, two must be taken out.

Clothes are more accessible if left on the floor.

Church services produce the irrepressible urge to poke at siblings sitting next to you.

Following hours of after-school silence, the day's routine activities must be discussed at bedtime.

The later the hour, the greater the desire for a bedtime story.

If at first you don't get permission, cry, cry again.

Announcing "Bedtime!" elicits hunger and thirst.

Always leave one square of toilet tissue on the roll. It's the considerate thing to do.

Light switches are made to be turned on. And left on.

A napkin is always within arms reach. It's called a sleeve.

Books without pictures beg for crayon illustration.

WHAT HAVE YOU LEARNED FROM YOUR CHILDREN? : )

To Thine Own Self Be True

What do Shakespeare's words mean?

To me, it's to stick to your principles, even if those around you have lost theirs, or don't have any, or - worse - try to convince you you're the one who's off-center.

This world is more and more topsy turvy every day - the line between right and wrong is not only blurred; in many places it's been completely erased.

Without a moral compass, do we really know what it means to be true to oneself? Without a properly formed conscience, can we trust our distinction between right and wrong?

Let's back up - Is there still objective right and wrong? No, not just what you or I feel like doing or not. I mean REALLY OBJECTIVE right and wrong - a high standard of behavior that includes controlling natural urges and impulses, and showing courtesy for others.

Burping, farting, picking the nose - all natural urges and impulses. But isn't it still wrong and impolite to freely indulge them in public?

What about the one talking on her damned cell phone every place she goes, without regard for those around her who couldn't care less about her chatter, and who in fact resent her selfish noise pollution and imposition on their privacy?

But why doesn't anyone speak up and put the cellphoneidiot in her place?

Give cellphoneidiot a look of disapproval and she'll likely confront you on it, instead of realize her voice is a little shrill, a little loud, and more than a little inappropriate for a room full of strangers.

***

There is a lie that's been perpetrated for years: the lie of "Tolerance." Speak out about something you know is objectively wrong and offensive, and be prepared to be called any number of ugly names because the politically correct police say you should be "Tolerant" - even if it means compromising your principles and playing the role of rug.

Just say no. Dissent is not intolerance, no matter how much the offenders tell you it is.

For "To Thine Own Self Be True" to have the full power it was intended to have, you first have to know what "true" is, and what it is not.

The Blue Screen Was The Final Hint

I knew it! I just knew it! My work computer has been acting strangely for a few days and finally failed - with that dreaded BLUE SCREEN - on Tuesday. I suspected this...

At 05:01 UT (Universal Time), on Thursday, May 7th, 2009, Mercury the cosmic trickster turns retrograde at 1°44' Gemini, in the sign of the Twins, sending communications, travel, appointments, mail and the www into a general snarlup! The retro period begins some days before the actual turning point (as Mercury slows) and lasts for three weeks or so [emphasis added], until May 31, when the Winged Messenger reaches his direct station. At this time he halts and begins his return to direct motion through the zodiac.

Everything finally straightens out on June 14, as he passes the point where he first turned retrograde... (source: Astrology on the Web)

Have you been having "communications" problems these past couple of weeks, too?

Children: Spun Sugar or Clay?

The pervasive politically correct, bleeding heart, liberal mindset insists we treat our children like brittle spun sugar dolls that should be handled as little as possible. We don’t want to hurt their feeeeeelings. Don’t want to damage their self-esteeeeeem.

I say it’s our parental obligation to view our kids as beautiful globs of clay instead. Particularly in the first five years of life before we are obligated to turn them over to the liberal cesspool of the education system.

While our children are young, we parents need to grab ‘em with both hands and shape, smooth, tool, twist, blend, taper, and craft for all we (and they) are worth. That means loving and nurturing them by drawing clear lines between acceptable and unacceptable behavior. Tempering privileges with discipline. Saying no, and following through. Saying yes, and following through.

Clothes, food, and a roof are not enough. Toys, TV, video games, and summer camps do not compensate. Get your hands dirty. Feel the clay goosh between your fingers.

Kids are open and curious. And they constantly test the limits. Not because they want to aggravate us, but because they need to understand what is OK and what’s not OK. They’re learning about the world – their world – and we parents must embrace our responsibility as their teachers. If we neglect that duty, our little sponges will absorb whatever liquid knowledge leaks their way. And we may not like the results. Too many clueless parents do not take charge of what goes in, and then despair over their child’s unruly and defiant behavior. Children may be individuals, but they need guidance to shape their values and behavior to function properly in society. That’s your job, Mom. That’s your duty, Dad.

Our consistency is among the most important gifts we can give our young children. And it doesn’t cost any money, just thought and time.

Nothing is more unsettling to a child than to be able to do something without reprisal today, and be berated for it tomorrow. Worse, get in the habit of doing something over a period of time, only to have Mom or Dad blow their top about it much later. It breeds confusion. Fear and uncertainty.

Strict parenting does not damage a child’s self-esteem; weak parenting does.

Consider this when your two-year-old bundle of self-centered "me-me-me" impulses does something that’s “so cute”: will it still be so cute when she does it as a four-year-old? No? Nip it in the bud when she’s two and you won’t have to deal with it when she’s four.

True self-esteem and self-confidence are not built by having every urge indulged. That pattern is just an artificial prop. Self-esteem and self-confidence are actually developed from having those urges trained properly. If the only things our children experience are impulse indulgence and praise for mediocrity because we are afraid to offend them, they will surely crack and crumble like spun sugar when life’s hammer falls.

(written May 5, 2007)

Just Who (or What) is ELEMARE?

The name ELEMARE is a phonetic spelling of my monogram – L.M.R. So, now you have the correct pronunciation, too!

I’m a mother of four wonderful young adults – three boys and a girl – and was lucky enough to be a full-time at-home mom for 10 years. In that time, I also served terms as the president of the Quality Hill Neighborhood Association, the Preservation Society of Pawtucket, the St. Leo the Great Home & School Association, and served as a member of the Pawtucket Historic District Commission and the Pawtucket Zoning Board. I currently work in public relations and publicity – and often feel like I live under a rock now, compared the close, active connection I once had with my community.

Although I work at a TV station, television is not something I enjoy much; by choice, I don’t subscribe to cable – unfathomable to some, but true nonetheless! Unless it's PBS (which is free over the air and doesn't require paying cable's outrageous subscription prices), TV is mostly weak content to fill the space between commercials. There are a couple of exceptions, but not enough for the kind of destination viewing I used to do in the early days of Hill Street Blues and when that quirky Twin Peaks aired.

A Scorpio, I’m fascinated with astrology, mystery, and spirituality. Is it any surprise I'm a fan of Coast to Coast?

I’m passionate (at least opinionated) about everything – it’s love or hate with me. They really aren’t opposites, you know – they are both intense feelings. The true opposite of love is apathy. You won’t find much apathy here. : )

I love to write – I love the power of words – but often, free expression is stifled by the traditional constraints of all the business writing I do. Add a harsh internal editor, and it’s a recipe of dry ingredients – flour and salt.

Still, when you push a balloon down on one side, the other side pops up in defiance. So, this blog is that defiant pop up. Poetry or prose, rant or rave, I might inspire you; I might offend you. But I will be honest with you. I can’t cook any other way.

Here, I add the butter. You're invited to add seasoning. Let’s stir things up together. : )