What Lies Within

 "Go as far as you can see; when you get there, you'll be able to see further." Thomas Carlyle

"What lies behind us & what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us." Ralph Waldo Emerson

Nic is making great strides these days. With the help of adaptive pedals, he can ride a trike. Soon, he’ll be getting his own wheelchair. However, unless you or someone you know has a child with the sort of special needs that require wheelchairs, adaptive toys like a trike or bike, walkers, special bath equipment, braces, immobilizers, and a lot of other products, I don’t suppose you can possibly imagine how this complicates child rearing.

Not that they have time to read this, but I just want to acknowledge Nic’s parents who coordinate weekly sessions with physical therapists, meet with social workers, visit specialists, drive to aqua-therapy, travel to doctors at the Mayo Clinic for botox injections, arrange occupational and speech therapy, and call about insurance coverage, all while just trying to be a mom and dad who provide for their family.

On top of all of the above, throw in learning about Nic’s rights under the Individuals with Disabilities Education Act (IDEA). As he approaches his third birthday, the Individualized Education Program, commonly referred to as an IEP, will become important as the blueprint for crafting educational experiences for him. And Nic’s parents will now really hone their advocacy skills.

I wish Nic’s parents and all of those other parents who perform heroically on a daily basis didn’t have to fight so hard for their children. I wish America would move closer to the spirit of these laws. But most of all I wish for Nic a life without limits.
 

Links I like:

National Dissemination Center for Children with Disabilities

United Cerebral Palsy: Life without limits for people with disabilities 
where there is located a link to: The State of Disability in America: An Evaluation of the Disability Experience

Lekotek: The country's central source on toys and play for children with special needs.
 
Toys R Us Toy Guide for Differently-Abled Kids

Publish Post

Place Matters: Looking for Mitford

The Amazon.com review pretty much hit the nail on the head:

Mix one part All Creatures Great and Small with two parts Lake Wobegon, sprinkle a little Anne of Green Gables and get: Mitford, the pinnacle of provincial life, where homespun wisdom, guarded tradition, and principled faith are the precepts of good living.

These days Jan Karon’s At Home in Mitford is on my car’s CD player each morning as I drive to work. I long for a place like Mitford. Small town. Southern. People care about each other. Know about each other. Not too much drama. Peaceful.

Oh well, this is fiction and I am only on the first book of the series. We will see if I stick with it beyond the first. But, I can see why it captured my attention as I explore my longing for what I call a sense of place – a place where I belong.

The National Trust for Historic Preservation offers a straightforward approach, calling sense of place:

Those things that add up to a feeling that a community is a special place, distinct from anywhere else.

In writing the blog this morning, I discovered that The National Trust for Historic Preservation has a This Place Matters Community Challenge now through Sept. 15 where you can pick a community and vote to support the community. The winner gets $25,000. 

I am throwing my support behind Orion, Illinois and its attempt to save Main Street. The folks of Orion say:

Our small community of Orion is "Rural America at its Finest!" Volunteers with Main Street Orion work tirelessly to avoid the fate suffered by other surrounding communities empty storefronts, shuttered homes, devalued properties, crumbling infrastructure, and shrinking population. Can it happen in Orion, too? Yes, and it has, to some extent.

The way the challenge works is communities "rally as many people around the grassroots issues of preservation in our communities as possible. This means that unlike a traditional voting-contest, participants are allowed to align themselves with one organization, one time throughout the Challenge and recruit as many people as possible to do the same."

Here's how to help Orion. Join me and see if we can help them out. After all, it's the neighborly thing to do.

And I’ll let you know when I get to my Mitford.

Happy Saturday!

PS Here is a Flickr Slideshow about the project

I Wonder

Nothing happens until something moves.
— Albert Einstein

Elder son asked if I had written anything on the blog lately. I said, “No.” And I started to wonder why. Certainly, I’m never short of something to say. However, I am a bit tired these days. Tired of politics for sure, shaking my head at the seemingly impossible impasse at which our two political parties here in the U.S. find themselves. I don’t recall feeling so discouraged in quite a while.

I could rail on the need to address the greater good but find I am fighting an urge to turn inward and tend to my own good.

Remember in the 80s when Looking Out for #1 topped the New York Times best-seller list? I am, of course, dating myself, but I have grown tired of self-help books like Robert Ringer’s as well as the “wisdom” dispensed by Oprah Winfrey. Life’s complicated and if I’m going to figure it out, I’d just as soon trust my own instincts rather than theirs.

I did finally get back to the gym this weekend after letting the excuse of a bad cold sideline me. I’m in better spirits. As I walked at a goodly clip goin’ nowhere (listening to my favorite Chris Isaak CD) on the treadmill, three posters on the weathered brick wall in front of me caught my eye. One said, “Possibilities,” another “Opportunities,” and the final “Action.”

That about sums it up as best as I can see. Life is about action. When we succumb to inaction for whatever reason, I believe we are merely walking through life zombie-like. I think that it’s a worthy goal to be that person of action. It becomes #4 on my list of resolutions.

Poetic Justice for Somali Pirates

MOGADISHU, Somalia – Five of the Somali pirates who released a hijacked oil-laden Saudi supertanker drowned with their share of a reported $3 million ransom after their small boat capsized, a pirate and a relative of one of the dead men said Saturday.

This is my nomination for the best example of poetic justice I’ve seen lately. Am I callous to feel this way?

I don’t think so.

We have a love/hate relationship with pirates. Whether it was Errol Flynn portraying a dashing and romantic pirate in movies of a bygone era like Captain Blood, Billy Zane’s creepy psycho pirate in Dead Calm, or a playful Johnny Depp in Pirates of the Caribbean, we never expect to encounter a real pirate. Pirates are supposed to be entertaining, belonging these days in the world of fantasy.

So, I don’t really feel bad for thinking the way I do. Modern day pirates have sullied what had become a safe fantasy and they got what they deserved.

Awake

Awake—Omar tells her
But she sleeps and
Barely hears my voice

I’ve been spending a few minutes this morning purging. I don’t mean the definition associated with bulimia nervosa. Sorry for that image.

Yet, it might be somewhat appropriate in a subconscious way. I have thought about writing about some things that have happened in my life in the last year, each time backing away for whatever reason.

This morning as I set out to clean up the files on my computer, I found constant reminders of a previous life. Reminders of good times--photos of trips to Italy and celebrations of family events like birthdays and my son’s wedding. Amidst these pleasant occasions, I opened a letter laying out problems to be dealt with or ignored. Then a poem. Work files that hold no interest for me now. Sketches not of my making. Remnants of another’s life intertwined yet with mine but no longer of my concern.

As I choose what should be deleted, I keep coming back to the letter. Only now after weeks of contemplation, do I begin to evaluate the truth, casting away blame on one level but not another. I decide to keep the letter as a reminder to awake.

Thinking Ahead to October

Thinking ahead to October, I am reminded that soon you all will be seeing a bunch of products to make us aware of breast cancer. Seriously, do we need any more reminders?

However, this is the third year that I have created a new design especially for October’s onslaught of the pink ribbon and here it is. There has been an evolution of sorts as the first year saw a design with the pink ribbon forming the “l” in “Believe.” I wanted very much to believe that things would turn out okay. Last year without a single pink ribbon, I focused on retro designs aimed at getting women in for those annual mammograms, and I have noticed several large purchases and imagine that health educators are behind them.

And now with this year’s design, I hope to offer a message that no matter where we are on our journey, we must continue to live our lives to the fullest each and every day.

Where a Fully-Read Book Might Take You

If you read yesterday’s post, you will recall that I recently completed reading a book. As a woman who has endured, survived and suffered through way too many changes of late, I see why Joan Anderson’s The Second Journey The Road Back to Yourself caught my eye.

I fully intended to sit in one of Batavia Library’s comfy chairs and read a bit of the book, which I did. However, when it was time to go, I took the slim volume along with me. You see, Joan Anderson had 10 years earlier lived out one of my fantasies when she left her everyday life and spent a year by the sea in a journey to self-discovery. I haven’t read that book, but there is a part of me that wishes I could go off to some isolated natural environment and contemplate exactly what course and direction I want to steer the rest of my life. I don’t suppose younger readers will get this. They are too busy raising families and building careers and time is way too short for this sort of self-indulgent exploration. While time is not endless for them, it is indeed not quite so pressing an issue as it is with the older among us.

It had been 10 years since Anderson wrote her first book, the bestseller A Year by the Sea, and she was again ready to explore how her life was evolving. Anderson writes,

Now, as part of my ten-year inventory, I reflect on what is outlived in my life today. I’ve known for some time that holding on to anything ruins it, as does clinging to old ways, outdated ideals, worn-out relationships, and lifestyles that have run their course. As a culture, we seem to prize permanency. Certainly the familiar is comforting. But the way we were is not the way we are, and why would I want to still have those parts of my life that have lost their zest? Perhaps one of the reasons I felt so compelled to come out here today was actually to witness massive change. None of us can control the way life passes: we can only adapt.

Before writing the second book, Anderson again found herself at what I call loose ends. The first book propelled her into a notoriety of book signings and retreats and a newly found status as a guide or mentor of women seeking self-discovery. By all accounts, she was successful. Yet, her busy life was not all that she desired, and thus, the author set out on the second journey, a journey that this time included a visit to the mystical and remote Scottish Isle of Iona.

Maybe when I write and publish my book, I will be able to jet to my island of self-discovery. She writes:

The call to a second journey usually commences when unexpected change is thrust upon you, causing a crisis of feelings so great that you are stopped in your tracks. Personal events such as a betrayal, a diagnosis of serious illness, the death of a loved one, loss of self-esteem, a fall from power are only a few of the catalysts. A woman caught thusly has no choice but to pause, isolate, even relocate until she can reevaluate the direction in which she should head. Should she stay the course or choose another path?

But alas, many of us inhibit our capacity for growth because the culture encourages us to live lives of uniformity. We stall, deny, ignore the ensuing crisis because of confusion, malaise, and yes, even propriety. Yet more and more, I come in contact with women, particularly in midlife—that uneasy and ill-defined period—who do not want merely to be stagnant but rather desire to be generative. Today’s woman has the urge to go against the prevailing currents, step out of line, and break with a polite society that has her following the unwritten rules of relationship, accepting the abuses of power in the workplace, and blithely living with myriad shoulds when she has her own burgeoning desires.

Anderson’s book got me to thinking anyway. And I actually finished a book. Not too bad for a woman who has endured, survived and suffered through way too many changes of late.

Valentine’s Day Thoughts

Life's a box of chocolates, Forrest. You never know what you're gonna get. Mrs. Gump

Winston Groom’s Forrest Gump became a beloved book and movie, but Forrest Gump just sort of fell into good fortune. He seemed to be in the right place at the right time.

Mrs. Gump’s wisdom is hard to argue with since we don’t know what will come our way. We can strive to craft the story of our lives with goals and objectives, but there is little security here.

However, there is to me one constant and that is love. Fleeting, lost, puppy, enduring, tumultuous, volatile, lustful, impulsive, friendship, romantic—there are as many kinds of love as a big box of chocolates.

It’s up to us to give and keep love in our lives. Happy Valentine’s Day!

A Sweet Postscript

NOTE: Chris, the British journalist/author whose grandfather, Frank Marhoff, I wrote about after visiting Oakwood Cemetery in Montgomery, Alabama has named his new son Harry Peter Montgomery Hunt. Chris discovered my original post last November and we corresponded and I again wrote about this story.

I am happy to hear of the start of Frank Marhoff's great-grandson Harry's life and that his name will carry a part of his grandfather's story forward. Congrats Chris and family!

And Now, the Rest of the Story

I love to hear from readers, especially when the post concerns them, as was the case I mentioned yesterday. Today, I’m sharing with his permission, the e-mail I received from Chris concerning his Royal Air Force grandfather.

It was with great interest that I belatedly read your blog entitled ‘Remembering Young Lives Cut Short on a Hot Alabama Day’ (dated August 9, 2006). It was particularly interesting as I was with my mother at the time, whose father (my grandfather) was the RAF pilot Frank Marhoff who you refer to in your article. It was quite strange but pleasing to see that someone on the other side of the world, who neither knows our family nor is connected to it, has taken notice of a grave that only one of us has ever been able to visit.

My mother was three years old when her father died in that plane crash and so far she has been the only family member to visit the cemetery in Montgomery, a lifelong ambition which she finally managed to achieve in 1988, some 47 years after he died. In 2005 when I was in the USA to write about the visit of the England national football (‘soccer’) team, I did myself toy with the idea of breaking off from visiting family in New York to fly down for a couple of days, but was unable to get it into my schedule. Maybe I’ll get there one day. I would certainly love to see it as the graves look beautifully set in your pictures.

My mother was interested to see all the flowers around the grave and your explanation of how they are cared for, as during her visit in 1988 the grave looked quite different – either it was before the flowers were added, or it was the wrong time of year, but she was certainly impressed by how it looks now (or at least last year, when you took the photo).

Just out of interest, out of the many graves there, why was it that you focussed my grandfather? I’m always interested in these chance happenings.

Just to fill out the picture a bit in case you’re interested, after my grandfather’s death in 1941 my grandmother never remarried and brought up the two girls referred to in the newspaper cutting by herself. She emigrated briefly (for two years) to Australia in the 1950s, before returning to the UK and eventually relocating to the Cambridgeshire area of England to be near my mother in the early 1970s. She died in the early Nineties. Had my grandfather lived, he would now have four grandchildren and three great-grandchildren, plus one more on the way, as my first child is due in January. It’s strange to think that a life cut so short has so much that comes from it. But I guess cemeteries like the one in Montgomery are full of such stories.

I have a box of photos of my grandfather in Alabama and my mother has all the letters he wrote home from before his death. We even tracked down a Pathe newsreel clip that features him briefly during his training in the US. Plus we also have a photograph of him meeting Jack Dempsey while in the States, as featured in the clippings you linked to your blog. At least there are a few things to pass down to my first child alongside my mother’s few early memories of the man. One way or another, Frank stays alive in the family.

Many thanks for writing your article and spending some time visiting my grandfather’s grave.

Best wishes,
Chris Hunt
Journalist/Editor/Author
Web: www.ChrisHunt.biz

And in reply to my request to publish his e-mail:

By all means share the email – the whole thing has cheered my day up. I didn’t post it all as I thought it might clog up your blog with too much information for the wider world. However, I’ve just posted another comment because of a bizarre coincidence. I was looking at the below link with my wife after showing her your blog. After noticing the date on the headstone, she pointed out that it would be the anniversary of his death today.

Being a writer like yourself, I’ve always found the story of my grandfather very interesting – even though it’s a very ordinary story. He was among the first shipment of RAF trainee pilots sent to the US to train to fly, but he didn’t die a war hero, he wasn’t special to anyone outside his family, but he’s always been a big part of our family’s life and history. My grandmother certainly never got over him and my mother still thinks about him regularly.

As a child I grew up fascinated by the photos of him in his uniform on the base in the US and the picture of him with Jack Dempsey. It all seemed a million years away from our lives. My other grandfather fought in the First World War (and lived to tell the tale), but in some ways I thought that the idea of Frank travelling so far away to the US (and being pictured with big American cars in the background, alongside strange looking American road signs) was in some way more alien than the idea of my other grandfather fighting in Ypres. I’m sure one day I’ll write about it myself!

All the best,
Chris Hunt

Note: if you click on this link, you will see a photo of Frank's grave, which was posted less than a month ago. I suppose another story lies in the photographers who post these photos.

Fallen Heroes

Last year I wrote a post entitled, “Remembering Young Lives Cut Short on a Hot Alabama Day.”

I had visited Oakwood Cemetery Annex in Montgomery, Alabama, where Confederate sons of the South rested near the graves of British airmen sent to train at Maxwell Air Force Base during WWII. Yet many more visitors come to see the grave of country music legend Hank Williams than pause at the graves of these fallen soldiers.

This morning, a reader named Chris left a comment about the old post:

It was with great interest that my mother and I belatedly read your blog. The RAF pilot you refer to, Frank Marhoff, was my grandfather. It was quite strange but pleasing to see that someone on the other side of the world, who neither knows our family nor is connected to it, has taken notice of a grave that only one of us has ever been able to visit. I shall email you more fully care of your blog address, but once again, thanks for taking the time to think about my grandfather.

We all want to think that our time here on earth matters—that someone notices that we were born, lived and died. Maybe we aren’t a famous celebrity. We might not have invented a new medicine, flew to the moon or ran for political office. Yet, the human in us wants to know that life is precious and that our time here, short as it is, mattered to someone.

Also During My 19th Year

Part 2
Also, during my 19th year:

18 year-olds gained the right to vote when the 26th Amendment was ratified.

In June of 1971, the New York Times published excerpts of the Pentagon Papers and later won a U.S. Supreme Court First Amendment case when the government challenged it.

A man calling himself D. B. Cooper parachuted from a Northwest Orient Airlines plane he hijacked, with U.S. $200,000 in ransom money (he was never heard from again).

Brian’s Song aired on ABC TV. CBS introduced the Waltons in The Homecoming: A Christmas Story. All in the Family became popular. A Clockwork Orange premiered in December.

Number one songs included: Carole King (It’s Too Late), James Taylor (You’ve Got a Friend), Bee Gees (How Can You Mend a Broken Heart?), Isaac Hayes (Shaft), Don McLean (American Pie), America (A Horse With No Name), Roberta Flack (The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face) and Sammy Davis, Jr. (The Candy Man).

Peace protests continued against the Vietnam War. President Nixon visited China. The Federal debt was $408.2 billion. A stamp rose to 8 cents, up from 6 cents earlier in the year. Minimum wage was $1.60. A gallon of gas was $.36.

In May of 1972, Arthur Bremer shots George Wallace in Maryland.

Federal Express was founded. Intel introduced the microprocessor. Disney World opened in Florida.

And that, my friends, were a few of the things happening when I was 19.

When You Were 19

Today is the 19th birthday of my son, Scott. He’s usually College Boy to you. I am thankful to have him in my life and proud of him, and I think that is probably all I need to say because having a mom who blogs about you may not be appreciated.

But, I thought back to what I was like when I was my son’s age. The year was 1971, and when I turned 19, I had been married exactly 31 days. The photo is of my father and me on my wedding day. I love the background. Our wedding was planned in a week.

That summer was hot and I was looking forward to getting back to school after staying with my in-laws for a month.

However soon, new husband and I were back at the University of Alabama, scraping by in a $75 a month, tiny one-bedroom apartment on 13th Street in Tuscaloosa, close enough to campus to walk. Our furniture was from a shabby second-hand store downtown--the bookcase, two boards and four concrete blocks. My mom paid $1,000 toward my expenses that year and the rest came from student loans and a work-study job. Between classes, we went to football games and free movies on campus, played ping-pong at the student center and studied. On weekends we drove out to Lake Tuscaloosa in our 1963 red VW Beetle, and I learned to drive a stick shift while destroying the clutch. In late November, Coach Bear Bryant’s boys beat Auburn 31-7 and the Tide went on to lose big to Nebraska in the Orange Bowl.

During Christmas break, we watched the new Bond movie, Diamonds Are Forever, with my husband’s mother. But in February of my 19th year, my new mother-in-law lost her fight with breast cancer. Spring saw us trying to help husband’s brother and grandmother deal with her death. On hindsight, I don’t think I was much help. We cleaned out the house and arranged for a lady to come in to check on Grandmother and went back to classes.

More tomorrow.

Review of Behind Happy Faces

Tomorrow is National Depression Screening Day. A few days after I participated in a bloggers’ conference call about campus mental health, a copy of Behind Happy Faces arrived at my doorstep. Written by Ross Szabo and Melanie Hall, this book is a very personal look at what happened to Szabo when he was diagnosed with bipolar disorder his senior year in high school. The authors weave other stories into the message that, despite the stigma society attaches to mental health issues, help is out there and that with treatment, there is reason for great hope.

The authors don’t sugarcoat their message though. While they point out statistics may show that “a large majority of people who seek help can see improvement in their symptoms,” they must first be willing to ask for help.

Szabo and Hall have written this book as a guide for young adults. Yet, their work is valuable for those who love and work with young people. They touch on what I believe to be the most difficult issue and offer suggestions about how to get those young people to see the need for help. Common mental disorders like anxiety, depression, eating disorders, attention deficit disorder/attention deficit hyperactivity disorder, bipolar disorder, schizophrenia and borderline personality disorder are discussed. And Szabo describes how in his case, he fell into substance abuse to self-medicate the pain of his illness as so many other people do.

Whether it’s planning, maintenance, understanding the illness or adjusting one’s lifestyle, the authors stress “you are not your disorder.” They write: “The reason this distinction is important is because it casts a more positive outlook on your treatment. You’ll start to think of your disorder as something you can manage, not something you’re stuck with, or something that can’t be help.”

While this is a straightforward and realistic look at mental illness in young people, Szabo’s story provides much encouragement. From the low point of wanting to take his own life, he has come to terms with his illness and has an understanding of what it takes to manage the bipolar disorder. The authors promise no easy answers but they do offer advice from the mental health community and Szabo’s personal experience. Today, Szabo is Director of Youth Outreach for the National Mental Health Awareness Campaign and a popular campus speaker for CAMPUSPEAK, Inc. where he has reached thousands of young people. You might also catch him penning a post for the Huffington Post. He is a man with a mission after all.

Behind Happy Faces is a book that ought to be on the bookshelf of every high school and college counselor, adviser, teacher and administrator.

In the Stillness of Night

One lone camper at the port campgrounds where the floating man cave is docked was breaking camp as we pulled up around 2:30 p.m. The clouds had built up to the point where it seemed rain was imminent, and sure enough, as we got under way a few sprinkles started to fall. “Should we stay near the port?” we asked each other as husband raised the canopy. “Nah,” we both concluded. This didn’t look like a serious storm, and we soon outran the drops.

We passed only a few boats on the way to a secluded cove where husband dropped anchor, and we noticed a quietness we had not heard in weeks. There were no other boats within earshot. Table Rock Lake is a busy and popular spot most weekends. And yet, on this Sunday we nearly had this enormous lake to ourselves.

We sat watching the clouds as the stillness surrounded us until the sun set over the hills and slowly the stars became visible—first the Evening Star and soon, as we sat with our chins pointed upwards, the whole of the sky was covered. How low the Big Dipper appeared! By now darkness enveloped us. Only a few lights from homes overlooking the lake punctuated our darkness. We smelled wood smoke and heard a lone dog bark in the distance.

I thought back to how as a child I was so afraid of the dark that I slept with the light on each night, afraid of danger lurking there in the dark. Yet, tonight, in nearly pitch black with no moon to steal the glory from the stars, I breathed in soft evergreen-scented air and thought how wonderful.

I’m OK. You’re OK.

“Are you OK? You haven’t posted a blog for nearly a week,” kind and dear gentle reader quizzed.

I wrote back, “One word. Doldrums.”

I guess that’s the quickest way to describe my mood of late. No, not depressed. That’s reserved for more serious states, which I’m not going to trivialize by being overly dramatic.

Like a sailing ship calmed by the lack of winds, I seem to be adrift. The dictionary defines doldrums as a sluggish state in which something fails to develop. And yet, there’s tension here like a hot and angry (why, the anger?) boil ready to burst. There I go. That sounded dramatic didn’t it? Change is coming. Change is inevitable. If I rail against this wind of change and her fickleness, what good will that do? Change must be embraced as an old and familiar friend, one who was so charming when I was young and who has grown wise with time and now returns to visit when I need her and sometimes when I don't.

In reality, I’m engaging in a period of readjustment. Four months is too soon for Springfield to feel like home. Six weeks is too soon not to miss college boy although he calls often enough for any helicopter parent. With fall and winter fast approaching, gardening no longer holds my interest. Instead of possibilities right now I see roadblocks. Excuses. And writing? To my ear, the words ring hollow and insincere as if I was trying to fill up a washtub with wisdom for myself one drop at a time.

I’m a nurturer and right now I’m searching. When I find it--whatever it happens to be, I’m sure the mood will change, and the wind will find her way again to my sails.

Why I Blog, You Ask

At its core, I blog to express myself and to improve my writing. A summer ago I started the Alabama Kitchen Sink with this post. I had just opened a cafepress.com shop and thought I could round up some business that way. Little did I know soon the blog would take on a life of its own with no purpose other than the writing and the connections it brought.

I haven’t been disappointed at all. So far I’m only met one person who reads my blog. After last spring’s moving sale, Rev. Jay came by my house in Alabama with a young deaf woman in tow. He was helping collect household leftovers to furnish her first apartment. I’ve since learned Rev. Jay and his wife have continued to mentor the young lady. Soon, she’ll fly for the first time to Washington, D.C. to visit Gallaudet University. Gallaudet University, the nation’s premiere school for deaf students, is itself another blogging adventure and is how I met Rev. Jay to begin with.

I’ve written about race and politics, and I pride myself on a civil response to anyone who disagrees since these two subjects can generate different points of view. I have, after all, sat down with the KKK’s Robert Shelton for an interview (okay, I was a student in J-class). My style would be defined as anti-shouting; however, I warn you that I do tend to climb up on my soapbox and I can get a little preachy. If you want shouting go watch Sean Hannity, Bill O’Reilly or Nancy Grace. So, if you visit with Miz Sheila, I expect you to keep a civil tongue if you want to tell me what you think.

People know I’m a Yellow Dog Democrat who first voted for George McGovern but who is unhappy with her party and doesn’t want Hillary Clinton to be the nominee. People know I’m a Unitarian who tries to be respectful of all faiths, even the snake handlers. Boy do my readers know about College Boy and his search for a college home. Readers have cyber-held this helicopter parent’s hand and reassured me that CB will learn to get himself up for class and he will be fine. And you what, everybody; you were right. Least so far.

Readers know I lost a beloved English Springer Spaniel named Samantha but gained an exuberant granddog English Springer Spaniel named Monte. I’ve shared photos of trips to Italy, Chicago and farmers markets and fairs. I’ve posted recipes for red velvet cake, puzzling questions and calls to action. You will know if you become a regular that I need to get back to the gym to keep the weight off I lost on the South Beach Diet, which I also wrote about last year.

And that’s a rather long-winded answer to a simple question.

A Father’s Post 9/11 Thoughts

Tuesday night in a small church chapel on campus, we listened as a writer and father recounted how in the days following September 11, 2001 he watched his 19 year old son make the decision to sign up for the Army. Only after the young soldier was sent to Baghdad did the full impact sink it. The father and mother watched the news from their “nest” and comforted each other until one day a call home came from the son. “I’ve been shot, but I’m okay,” he said. The father related that the tone in the son’s voice was almost exuberant as if the son had witnessed a miracle, and I suppose it was a miracle that the Kevlar vest stopped the bullet and not the young man’s flesh.

After that day, doubts began to grow in the heart of the father. He started to question why he had not tried to stop the son from enlisting at all. He had periods of depression, and yet, each day he watched the news and listened to the reports of more deaths. Then one day another call came, and this time the voice on the other end of the line was official. “Are you . . .?” However, this was again a close call for the son who had been injured as his tank came under fire. Nothing serious—a mere bump on the head. But it could have been thought the father.

The son came home on leave, and the father watched as the son no longer fit in with the high school friends who were more interested in video games than hearing about the reality of war. He had changed. When the leave was over, the father could barely stand driving the son to the airport to catch a return flight to Iraq. As the days in Iraq dwindled down for the son and his service was nearly complete, a fellow soldier who had become a close friend died. The son brought that hurt home with him as he set about starting life afresh.

“I have two sons,” I told the writer as we connected after the reading. He replied, “You know those Army ads where the son says ‘I want to enlist’ and they say ‘talk about it’? Well, don’t listen to them.”

Note: The Army launched a new advertising campaign valued at $1 billion last fall with McCann Worldgroup. According to the Boston Globe, $200 million is guaranteed for the first two years of the five-year campaign. Army Strong replaces "An Army of One" and "Be all that You Can Be."

Just Looking

We visited the local Bass Pro Shops Outdoor World over Labor Day weekend. Husband asked me along “just to see what they have on sale.” Now, I’ve been married to this man long enough to know he wasn’t simply window-shopping. He had in mind something and he was hoping it would be on sale.

This place is huge. Bass Pro has a presence in at least 24 states and Canada, but Springfield is the headquarters and is itself a tourist destination. So on a holiday weekend it was crawling with tourists, so much so I could barely find a parking spot between all the cars from Arkansas, Kansas and for goodness sakes, California of all places. If you’ve ever been to Ikea, you get the idea. Bass Pro Shops is the Ikea of outdoor stuff and clothes to wear while you are there or if you want to look like you are the outdoorsy type. I’ve never been to Freeport, Maine, to L.L. Bean, but I’ll bet that store is kind of like a slightly more upscale Bass Pro.

Lodge themed would be how I describe the place with a hefty dose of “natural” thrown in. That three-story waterfall complete with ducks and fish amazed all the small fry. Upstairs at the mega buffet, is another site worth the glass elevator ride or stair climb—a 30,000 gallon saltwater aquarium filled with colorful fish. Toss in stuffed bears and other critters, guns, boats, camping gear, turkey-frying equipment, fishing paraphernalia ranging from waders to rods and you get the picture.

We didn’t even get over to the next-door museum or catalog outlet and we left with nothing. Woo Hoo! How often can I go shopping with husband without spending nada?

Turns out husband was looking for a grill to attach to his boat. I’m going to worry if he starts looking at tents for the thing.

Sharing a Painful Story

Okay, I didn’t intend to write again any time soon about depression and mental health, but I just read a comment from a new reader named Barrett who wrote about his attempted suicide on his blog, Huma B Post, after running across my post on campus mental health. Nearly five years ago, he tried to take his life. I’m glad he’s still here, and I’m glad life’s a lot better these days for him.

Barrett wasn’t the first reader to share a deeply personal detail with me. Another reader, a mother, wrote that her dear daughter had a different outcome when she attempted suicide. I was profoundly sad for I know this hurt will never go away.

Go hug someone you love today. Give a word of encouragement. We all need that.