Over the years, I’ve blogged several times about Sass, my next door neighbor for 33 years. During that length of time, we built a strong bond, in spite of our differences. Born in London and raised in South Africa, she and her husband immigrated to Canada and then to the US. I marveled at her vocabulary–so many new English words and expressions, but after while I found myself using “dreadful” and “bloody” regularly. Our personalities were polar opposites–she was not warm, generous, or giving. She couldn’t be bothered learning people’s names, even though we played trivia with them every week. She was highly-opinionated and never knew when to back down or walk away from an argument. Hence, I nicknamed her, Sass. But our labels didn’t end there; we also referred to ourselves as Thelma and Louise.

In our 33-year friendship, Sass’s loyalty was unwavering. She’d graciously be the donor of a cup of sugar or an egg in a recipe emergency. She’d come on-demand and remove a snake from my yard. On the morning, I found my beloved, Roxy, pup dead under a tree, she helped me get the body into a box and accompanied me to the emergency vet for cremation. She became a strong supporter of children, particularly those in the arts and in alternative education. Further, we shared a love for dogs, gambling and politics; we spent numerous nights on my patio solving the problems of the world over cans of beer. As an atheist, she had very strong views about organized religion and its effects on followers.

Seven years ago, Sass had a heart attack. Four years later, pancreatic cancer surgery. And just as her chemotherapy ended, she had another heart attack–so severe she had to have open heart surgery. After that recovery, that sneaky ba@#$^d pancreatic cancer returned with vengeance. After enduring several months of a clinical trial, all hope was lost. During this very arduous ordeal, Sass never complained; she was not maudlin, nor weepy. She accepted her fate valiantly and with dignity, even though her frame resembled that of a concentration camp prisoner.

A week before she died, I went over to sit with her while her husband was at work. She said simply, “Sue, it’s over.”

I sat down next to her and took her hand: “No, it’s NOT! Thelma, don’t crap out on me. I love you. You’re beyond time, and you’ll live forever in my heart.”

A weak smile crossed her face. “I love you.”

As I stood at her bed and saw her corpse, I mumbled, “Oh, Thelma. Forever my partner in crime–Ride or Die.”

Twenty-nine years ago, I first encountered the Garcia family when I volunteered to serve as a mentor to Deb, the youngest child. In this particular mentorship program, my commitment was for seven years: 5th grade through high school graduation. My job was to help her succeed in school and encourage her continuing education after graduation.

Thankfully, Deb was highly motivated and her family supported her aspirations. Yet, we had the usual glitches along the way, including mean girls in middle school and a creepy teacher in high school. I sat in the bleachers and cheered during her softball games, celebrated her birthdays, and bought her little incentives along the way. I tried eating in the school cafeteria with her on several occasions, but the food was so dreadful, I brought her lunch once a week, as we caught up on the week’s events.

I was so proud of her the night I handed her a diploma–as proud as I was with my own kids. Four years later she graduated from Arizona State and got a job with the State Department of Economic Security. That accomplishment was not surprising because she is bilingual. Her English is so impeccable few people realize her talent. Not only did she excel at her job and breezed through a number of promotions, she married and has two small children.

But my blog is not just about Deb, it’s about her entire family and how they’ve enriched my life. I marvel at the joy they exude when together. They laugh and sing. I’m stunned by how well they all get along. Remarkably the cousins are very kind to one another. They assist the younger ones who struggle opening a bag a chips or forking up some lasagna.

When they were all at my casa last weekend, one of the five-year-olds whined, “There’s no more cookies left.”

His teenage cousin handed him hers, “Here, Luis, take mine.”

I was struck this sense of sharing also included more exciting things, like inner tubes and rafts, beach balls and diving toys, and even turns jumping off the diving board. And as my fiesta drew to a close, every child gathered up his/her own stuff. Every child hugged me and thanked me for having them.

I know many Mexican Americans display a strong family bond, which I suspect is passed along from generation to generation. Unfortunately, for many of us that dissipated the more mobile and transient we became. My children grew up without Sunday dinners at their grandparents’ home and family holiday traditions; they saw their cousins once a year. In fact, my entire family is scattered across America, and all of us haven’t been together for four years. Indeed, I’m in awe of mi familia, and I am most grateful to be embraced by them.

I find nothing more irksome than plastic packaging. I’m not talking about hamburger bun plastic bags; I’m talking about the hard molded plastic that surrounds some computer inks, scissors, and even some children’s toys.

This week I encountered D-size batteries wrapped in that heinous stuff. After struggling with scissors and various knives I used wire cutters to set my batteries free. That project took almost a half hour, raised my blood pressure, and exhausted all my swear words. However, that’s not my only gripe. Some Gatorade bottle lids can only be opened by shoving them in a vise and tightening the lid until it cracks. Of course, that necessitates the additional task of mopping up the sticky drink spurt on the garage floor. Another difficult lid is those which are childproof. Believe me, I eons beyond childhood and find some of them impossible to uncap. Once, my dog need an antibiotic. After my raging valiant effort failed to budge the cap, I took a hammer to plastic container and smashed it. Yes, the pills scattered everywhere, but I somehow scooped up all but one. I figured one stray pill would do no harm.

Given the increasing size of the senior population, I would think manufacturers would be more responsive in developing easy-to-open packages. I suspect their employees are former gamers who delight in creating difficult solutions to simple problems. They probably win awards for their puzzling designs, and their companies reap additional profits for consumer-charged packaging.

Obviously, nothing will change, but I released my angst regarding this issue. Oblah Di, Oblah Da.

As many of you know, in February, my first grandchild was born. Obviously, this little boy was a big deal for me since I’m soon to be 75-years-old. However, I didn’t realize what a chore it was to choose my new moniker. His other grandmothers had chosen Mimi and Gidda. Cute, but not my style. Yaya? GG? Gma, Grandma? Oma, Sue Sue?

“Mom, you have to pick a name. Maybe Brady should call you….” An endless list of absurd, funny, and rude names followed. I wanted a unique name–a name that would connect our family.

Last week I found just the right name. My mother, sister, nieces, two daughters, and I all joined sororities in college. Though most of us belonged to different ones, my eldest and her cousin were Kappa Kappa Gammas, my youngest was a Gamma Phi Beta. Gamma, the third letter of the Greek alphabet. In English it was referred to the letter “G.” In Greek it is drawn like a hangman game’s hanging post. From now on, I’d be known as Gamma or Gam!

But of course, I took my new name one step further and had the Greek letter tattooed on my bicep. Now, I visually display to the world my new identity! I think I’m going to love my new Gam gig!

(PS Dr. Suze Espouses will be on vacation and will be back June 25th with more random musings.)

According to Webster’s, trivial is defined as information that is unimportant or of little value. Certainly to me, there are a lot of trivial things like screaming over spilled milk or worrying about something that can not be changed, but for me, trivia is not trivial. In fact, it has expanded my intellect. Allow me a few examples:

Name the toy manufacturer that produces the most tires in the world. What was the United States longest poker game? How many bones does a shark have? In what country is Casablanca? Your response may be so what? Who cares? But these four questions can serve as interesting conversation starters at a boring cocktail party.

Legos produces over 830 million tires per year, outdistancing ever tire manufacturer you can name. The longest poker game was in Tombstone, AZ, and it was played continuously for over 8 years by such notables as Wyatt Earp, Bat Masterson, Doc Holliday, Diamond Jim Brady, Adolphus Busch, and George Hearst. An estimated $10 million dollars changed hand during the eight years. The game terminated when the Bird Cage saloon flooded. As to sharks, they have no bones, and Casablanca is Morocco’s chief port. So the next time you’re forced to watch Bogie and Ingrid, you’ll at least know where Casablanca is.

Feel free to test my theory the next time you try to engage someone in conversation. Ask them one of the questions I posed.

On May 21, fifty-three years ago, Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young released Neil Young”s, Four Dead in Ohio. College and universities across the country abruptly ended spring semester classes, as a horrified nation gasped at the tragedy at Kent State University. While the National Guard was responsible for the shootings, leaving an additional ten students wounded, it didn’t quell the anger of the young and old alike. But times have definitely changed. Now days it’s a ho-hum event when our greatest asset–our children are slaughtered in their school classrooms. We look the other way–not my kid–not my problem. But as the song lyrics ask: What if you knew her and found her dead on the ground? How can you run when you know?

Please know my stance is far from original, but I agree. We must start showing the truth. Americans must see the devastation of being blown to bits by AR-15’s. Weapons that render a child unrecognizable and only identifiable by kelly green tennis shoes or DNA. If you want sugar-coated, eat a donut!

On Sunday afternoon, CNN aired a documentary on the Ulvade shooting, One Year After Ulvade, in which they aired some body cam video of police vomiting after they burst into the classroom and found nineteen children and two teachers annihilated. Every American needs to view the crime scene aftermath. Every Texas elected politician should be forced to see the graphic pictures of blood and brains and bits and pieces on classroom walls. Without the proverbial shock and awe of reality, the gun lobbies will continue to bankroll our senators, representatives, and governors that guns don’t kill–people do. Really? If my kid hits another with a stick, not only do I discipline my kid, but I take away the stick. If my kid drives recklessly, I take away the car.

AR-15’s were intended as weapons of destruction to kill the enemy. They are known as spray and slay. AR’s have the potential to destroy a herd of stampeding cattle and render their carcasses inedible. So why are they offered for sale to the general public? And why are they offered without appropriate background checks of mental stability? Because Americans don’t see the graphic details of slaughtered children.

Until all of us can see the vivid pictures and listen to the stories of the families of Columbine, Sandy Hook, or Robb Elementary School, we will continue to ignore, dismiss, or turn our heads. Unless…we personally have to admit: Yes, I knew her. No, I can’t run because I saw it.

May signals graduation month for most colleges and high schools across the country. And according to a myriad of economic research, those who are educated earn more money and live a more quality lifestyle than those who aren’t. Duh? No brainer, right? But the first and most important step any student must achieve is “the ticket to the dance.” Without a high diploma, many doors are closed, albeit they have no ticket to the dance.

High skilled jobs demand education. America is screaming for carpenters, plumbers, and electricians. America is begging for teachers and health care professionals. America is searching for scientists with creativity to solve world hunger and climate issues. America needs cogent people to create better ways of doing things. America will limp along if problem solvers can’t confound homelessness, border issues, trade, abject violence, mental illness, and nuclear arms threats.

My message to all of the classes of 2023 is simply:

Undeniably, the tassel is worth the hassle. Never stop learning. Be the solution, not the problem. We old folk are counting on you. Yes, you to do great things. Congratulations.

I just returned from my daily trip to the grocery store, where the air was filled with aromatic flowers, floating helium balloons, and the whirring sound of the chocolate machine coating dozens of extra large strawberries. The greeting card aisle resembled a mosh pit at a popular concert. My experience today paused me to remember the founder of America’s Mother’s Day, Anna Jarvis.

In May, 1907, Anna held a memorial service to honor her late mother in Grafton, West Virginia. Her mother, Ann had organized women’s groups to advance friendship and health, and Jarvis wanted to establish a holiday to recognized the importance of mothers to their families. Five years later most US states observed Mother’s Day; in 1914, President Wilson proclaimed it a national holiday. In 1948, Jarvis died. She had spent the last years of her life lobbying to abolish the holiday; it’s original intent had become too commercial.

Today, 109 years later, I witnessed first hand Jarvis’s pet peeve. However, as I watched the delight on children’s faces as their fathers or other adults helped them choose the perfect balloon, card, and/or bouquet for Mom, I saw admiration, respect, and love. They wanted to honor their mothers. Even though it cost money, it was a warm, sincere thank you to their biggest cheerleader.

Happy Mother’s Day.

This week was Teacher Appreciation Week, and across America parent organizations and business organization joined together to honor teachers, bus drivers, custodians, and secretaries for their efforts in public education. While these were very positive and sincere celebrations, nationally there remains strong opposition to public schools.

When I go to the grocery store or to booster club fundraisers, people tell me how pleased they are with their elementary, middle, or high school, but school board meetings are filled with rancor, hate, and down right trash-talking. I’m so weary of listening to those who know teachers are grooming students. Grooming students to what end? To make them both creative and critical thinkers, to make them tolerant, kind human beings who can cooperate and collaborate with each other civilly? And when I confront this opposition, I ask: how do you know? How do you know your children are being groomed, reading porn, or learning about institutional racism? Unfortunately, not one of them has shown me proof–other than the proverbial answer, “I heard it.”

As a former professor of The History of American Education, public schools cyclically have been blamed for societal ills. For example, in 1956 when Sputnik soared into the heavens, it was the schools’ fault the Russians beat America. Ronald Reagan’s Secretary of Education declared public schools were failing the US economy. Hmm. No one, no legislature, no executive leadership wants to solve the hard issues of socio-economic problems when it’s easier to blame the public schools. Don’t believe me? Look at the national agenda today. The schools are at the forefront. All of societal ills are blamed on reading books Dr. Seuss, Mark Twain, and Harper Lee.

Teaching is the MOST important profession in the world! For without a teacher, there can be no scientist, no physician, no carpenter, no auto mechanic. Think about that! And take time to thank a teacher.

My eldest daughter insisted we grill carne asada and pollo asade for dinner. Obviously, that necessitated a trip to the carniceria (meat market.) However, I reluctant to go alone. “You have to go with me, Cate.”

“Why?”

“What if they ask me a question in Spanish? I won’t know how to respond. If I say si, I may end up with 5 lbs. of meat instead of two. Come with me.”

Of course, it was not without attitude, she went with me. As I patiently awaited my turn, Cate wandered around the store selecting salsa, guacamole, and tortillas. The butcher finally addressed me, “What may I get you?” Ah, he spoke English. But I was wary, so I enunciated slowly, “One pound Carne Ahsadah.” He glared at me, like I was nuts.

Cate, who had witnessed my encounter, laughed and whispered, “Cool it, Mom. You’re embarrassing the guy.” Needless to say, I now go to the market solo.

Like many of us over fifty, I really need a translator when it comes to tech talk and current slang. I don’t care about DOS, LOS, baud, byte, CPU, or port. I can’t interpret set-up instructions to I Watches, nor IPads. And since I’ve left the education arena, the new vernacular stymies me. “Meh” and “FOMO” are meaningless. Thank god, for The Urban Dictionary because I know I truly do suffer from FOMO–fear of missing out!

But my excursion yesterday uncovered my newest weakness. Lord, I thought I was fairly intelligent, but I found myself yesterday rudderless. My extremely ill neighbor was in need of help, and so I ventured into a dispensary. I felt like I was in the Great Wilderness. Unaware of the protocol, I walked right in and stood in line–only to be yanked out of line by an armed guard, who asked for my driver’s license. Once I’d been entered into their data base and pre-qualified for a senior discount, I wended my way to the salesgirl, who bought me a variety of edibles. Then she started talking about CBD and THC, number of grams, and other things of which I was totally clueless. Too many choices, too much information. My head spun. Finally, I reached my point of frustration and told the girl, “Just sell me what I need.”

Then came the ultimate insult when I took out my credit card to pay the bill. “We only take cash.”

Cash? I scrounged through my wallet. I counted and recounted my wad of dollar bills. Fortunately, I had just enough to complete my purchases. However, if I have to make this journey again, I’m taking an expert to translate. Not to forget, a whole lot of cash.