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 and family.

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.

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? : )

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. : )