December 14, 2012. The day that former President Obama recently called the darkest day of his presidency. The day of the Sandy Hook Massacre when 26 people lost their lives. Twenty of which were between six and eight years old. Unfortunately, I was president of a large, suburban district school board ten years ago, and I have never recovered from that unconscionable tragedy.

The trend continued. No longer were theaters, malls, big box stores, nor houses of worship safe. Then in May of this year occurred another mass shooting at an elementary school in Uvalde, Texas. My son-in-law, Brian, offered his “view” on these random killings. I listened and mentally tried to refute his theory, but the more I researched it, Brian might be right. Then he added, “You should write a book.”

No way in hell! I can’t write a book about my worst nightmare, my greatest fear. In spite of my repugnance, my conscience took over. If not you, who? Thus, in July I began to write The Academy. I cried, I laughed, and I even vomited once during the process. Based solely on Brian’s theory and totally a figment of my imagination, this book is heinous, provocative, and perhaps, frightening. Further, it is not suitable for those under 18 years of age.

The Academy published this week on Amazon in paperback-format only. (My very pregnant daughter, techno-guru had lost most of her patience with me to reformat for Kindle. If my book is widely received, I may issue a Kindle version.)

I have absolutely NO desire to make money from the sale of this book. The message is of UTMOST importance. I urge you to read it, think about it, and to act. With the holidays, my order for advance copies has been delayed until the first week of January when I will host a complimentary book-signing party at my casa. Those who email or private message me will be sent a complimentary copy. If you read my book and like it, spread the word.

My mini Bernese Doodle, Annabel, and I went to puppy school yesterday for our first class. My normally gregarious and energetic baby was reduced to a quivering mess. She and I couldn’t participate in the teaching of sit because she refused to stand; she just sat and stared at the other three rambunctious labs.

Of course, I was a bit embarrassed by her behavior, but then I recalled my own fears when I walked into new situations. Particularly, junior high school. I’d come from being a top dog sixth grader into a foreign world of sophisticated ninth graders. I was intimidated by their dress, style, and sophistication. During passing period I frequently managed to get bumped in the hallways or jostled in the cafeteria lines.

After a day or two of the cafeteria, I decided to take my lunch. I looked around the seemingly vast room, and seeing no one I knew, I sat down at a long table by myself. I was about halfway through my brown bag when she sat down. Oh ye gods, I was horrified! The most frighening girl in the ninth grade sat down next to me! Not even across from me, but next to me, sat Sally Sargent. Dressed in a white blouse and skirt complete with nylons and white tennis shoes, she began to eat cafeteria mystery meat.

I felt the perspiration spring across my forehead and was nauseated. I’d heard stories about Bullets–that’s what the boys called her. (I’m sure you understand why.) For some unknown reason, I reached into my lunch bag a pulled out a cherry tomato, but instead of popping the whole thing in my mouth, I bit into the middle. Much to my horror hundreds of seeds shot sideways all over Sally’s white skirt! Oh no, I’m about to be beat up by Bullets right now. I’m dead. But Sally was much too busy fawning over some guy who just sat down across from her. I snatched up my lunch and fled.

I had a talk with Annabel last night and told her this story. Hopefully, next week she’ll be able stand and sit on command. To be continued….

Since most of the elections are over (except in Arizona), the posturing of those elected has begun. Many breathed a long sigh of relief from the multitudes of disparaging TV ads and the constant political rhetoric. We looked forward to a period of contentment before it begins again in 2024. We were hopeful a spirit of cooperation would be the norm, and that politicians would strive to work together for the good of America and her citizens.

Contrary to our hope, the elected wasted no time to pledge retaliation, the removal of all opposing party members from legislative committees, and the continued destruction of states’ rights. Climate change issues, the January 6 investigation, and tax cuts for the poor and middle class are no longer priorities. Medicare and Social Security maintenance is threatened. Why?

I believe most folks aren’t jazzed about confrontation; we want to get along with our friends, family, and our neighbors. We want to work together in the spirit of collaboration and cooperation to resolve our issues and/or differences. And further, we are miffed by the jockeying and ‘good ole boy’ business as usual. Recording Star, Pink’s lyrics sum up our current situation:

We are problems that want to be solved. We are children that need to be loved. We were willing….

What about all the times you said you had the answers? What about all the broken ever afters?

What about all the times that ended in disaster?

What about us?

And so, I ask from about us? What about the USA?

“Thank you, Alexa, for reminding me to change the air filters.” A necessary chore in most home across the US. In fact, filters are found in many products from coffee pots, to car engines, to cameras. Yes, they all need changed. But it’s time to change the most important filter of all–the human filter.

Politics is flush with those incapable of knowing when to change or clean their filters. Number 45 is a good example. His unnecessary mocking of Lying Ted, Ron Sanctimonious, and Youngken as Chinese. Is that really becoming of a President? James Robison of Life Outreach International, an evangelical minister and former supporter said he told 45: “Sir, you act like a little elementary schoolchild and you shoot yourseelf in the foot every morning when you open your mouth! The more you keep your mouth closed, the more successful you’re gonna be!”

Another example is the heir-apparent Speaker of the House, Kevin McCarthy, who vows retaliation. Against whom? The Democrats? Well, so much for the Congress working together to resolve issues, he’s planning for war. My list could go on of politicians, like Arizona gubernatorial candidate, Kari Lake who promised to secede Arizona from the Union upon her victory. Obviously, she was totally clueless about the Arizona Constitution. And yes Kari refuses to concede her election loss because it was rigged. Marjorie Taylor Greene and Herschel Walker must have never been to school with some of the strange notions that spring from their mouths, as conspiracy theories or Georgia is the greatest country in the United States.

My advice to all elected politicians and wanna-be’s is simple: Think before you speak and silence is golden.

This week I’ve been asked if Arizona knows how to count by family and friends across the country. Yes, we do. But it’s complicated. Perhaps, you recall in the 2020 Presidential Election No. 45 chanted, “the election was stolen.” Of course, it was only stolen in states that failed to re-elect him. Millions of folks jumped on the proverbial bandwagon and agreed, without proof, the election was stolen.

In Arizona, millions of dollars were spent on recounting votes. In fact, the votes were recounted six to eight times, and no evidence was found, except for a handful of people who voted for their deceased relative. Even the State Attorney General, a Republican, proclaimed it: horse shit!

Enter the state legislature in January 2021, who arduously revised campaign election laws. Thick, impermeable layers of bureaucracy were enacted. So, what really happened last Tuesday? The storm. The first glitch that voting machines in several areas didn’t work for as long as eight hours. Now, most of us have encountered similar experiences: the well-rehearsed power point presentation fails to start in a room full of people; the refrigerator goes out on Thanksgiving eve; or the car won’t turn over when you’re due at work. Yes, these things are frustrating, but it’s called life.

Secondly, these voting machines could be replaced with state-of-the-art equipment. Ah, but that takes money. Something the legislature has routinely been unwilling to spend. They don’t like schools, nor state universities. They don’t want to talk about water issues, nor crime. They complain about the border, but make no effort to resolve issues. (Their solution of the Wall is ludicrous. Really, talk about an antiquated idea. Ask the Chinese or the Germans.)

The biggest problem, though, was skeptical behavior and bureaucracy. Election deniers of 2020 preached, “Don’t turn in your mail-in ballot until election day.” Almost a million didn’t. Now the elections department was strapped with verifying each and every signature before the ballots could be counted. The process of signature verification is also complicated, tedious, and laborious, for it requires an election employee, a Republican and a Democrat monitor to verify each one. Of course, there are those who are grumbling the delays are due to corruption. No. Just following the law.

This national firestorm could have been avoided had people just sent in or dropped off their ballot over the month-long voting period. It seems the majority no longer trusts any one or institution. While there are times I proceed cautiously, I tend to trust. I didn’t hesitate to drop my ballot at the post office the day after I received it, and thus it was counted upon receipt–not a month later. I sincerely believe most people are good and try to do the right thing, and I do believe it’s most harmful to disparage American services. I love having my trash picked up, my mail delivered, my fire and police services, and my public schools and universities.

I can’t wonder if the erosion of trust continues, will the US Mint redesign our currency? Perhaps, God is out too.

As a student in a college drama class, I was chosen to direct a one-act play, The Valiant. Written in the early 1920’s by Holworthy Hall and Robert Middlemass, the play is about James Dyke, a confessed murderer who has been sentenced to die, except no one really knows who he is and from where he comes. Near the end of the play Dyke quotes a line from Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar: Cowards die many times before their death. The valiant tastes of death but once.

While I’ve never forgotten my directorial debut, I recalled it vividly last night and was ashamed. Ashamed for my cowardice over fifty years ago. Ashamed I didn’t have all the pertinent facts I needed to fight back against an injustice. A shame I’ve carried for fifty years.

In the late 1960’s our chapter of a national sorority attempted to pledge a Black freshman coed, who would have been an outstanding asset. However, the alum advisors overrode the decision of the collegiates, and she was not offered membership. While some of my sorority sisters were equally appalled, I wrestled with the idea of deactivating. But I didn’t. I didn’t have the cajones to do so. In short, I was a coward.

I’ve managed to somewhat suppress that awful experience until yesterday when the mailman brought the new issue of my sorority magazine. As I perused it through dinner, I encountered an article about the first Black member. OMG! The landmark event occurred 300 miles away at another Ohio college in 1966–two years prior to my experience! Had I known that then, I would have fought back. Or would I? I’ll never know.

I’ve worked really hard to overcome my cowardly ways, Whether I’ve made any inroads is up to my Judgment Day verdict. But like Caesar said to his wife, I’ve already died many times over my behavior. I ain’t no valiant.

As a child, I always looked forward to Halloween, even if I had to wear a heavy coat over my costume. I dreamt about how long it would be until I could escape the tedious routine of school. However, all of those memories faded far away the older I became. And I realized that tomorrow, Halloween, is nothing more than the kickoff to the holiday season. Certainly, all the stores from retail, to pharmacies, to groceries have already been preparing us, but today, when I actually perused the calendar, I realized how swiftly the year had flown.

The best news is the election is in 10 days! The endless nasty ads will end and campaign literature will stop littering my mailbox. Tom and Tabitha Turkey have gone into hiding as Thanksgiving is a mere 25 days away. For those who celebrate Hanukkah, it’s time to find your dreidels, for your celebration begins in 49 days. Millions of children will delight in the arrival of St. Nicholas, Father Christmas, and Santa Claus in 56 days. For those of you mailing packages, the Post Office is recommending a date of no later than December 15. So you better get a hustle on, or do as I, and join Amazon Prime. If Amazon doesn’t have it, you’re not getting it!

Now, if this is not enough to boggle both your and my minds, in 63 days, it will be a NEW YEAR! A time for resolutions, albeit a time to make firm decisions to do or not to do something. When the newly-elected are sworn in in January, I hope and pray they have the fortitude and courage to resolve to bring put our American Humpty Dumpty back together again, rather than stroking their own egos and lining their own pockets. America is teetering; its el-hi educational system is faltering, violence is rampant, climate change is ravaging, and ignorance is flourishing. Time will tell.

I do have several creatures I abhor, like scorpions and snakes, but a tomato worm is near the top. Not only are they disgusting in appearance, but in one night they devastated three of my tomato plants. According to my research, they are also fond of peppers. eggplant, and potato plants. Sphinx moths lay eggs, and the worm that hatches, which can be as long as two inches, happily chomp the plant right down to the ground.

As usual, Mother Nature camouflages them in green making them very hard to detect until I witness their destruction. Curiously, I’ve been planting Phoenix gardens twice a year for over thirty years and never had one worm–contrary to the four I’ve killed this week. Hell, the only reason I knew what was going on was because of my childhood experiences. My grandmother taught my sibs and me to seek them out in her huge garden. Of course, like kids do, we made a game of it to see who could find the most! Though harmless, we’d use a stick to pry their sticky feet off the plant and then stomp on them. Birds would feast on their carcasses.

Yesterday, my next door neighbor came over, and I said I needed to check the garden; again another tomato worm. I showed her. “Ye, Gods!” she exclaimed. “That’s they most despicable thing I’ve ever seen.” She gagged. (Highly doubtful, as she was a med tech in her early life, but she was clearly taken aback by the wanton destruction of my plants.)

Unlike some of the other creepy crawlys I’ve blogged about, these pests have no value to the environment. So if you see one, don’t feel guilty–nuke it and move on.

PS Thank you for all your recommendations on Italian food. Trying a new sauce recipe today.

I’ve been back from New York City for a week and am in serious withdrawal from delightful Italian food. I have lived in Phoenix for almost forty years and have yet to find excellent Italian food, so my time in New York included binging on savory tomato sauces. The pasta was inconsequential: spaghetti, rigatoni, penne, it didn’t matter–just as long as it was smothered in excellent sauce.

I grew up in Youngstown, Ohio, where I devoured fabulous pizza, calzones, meatballs, and of course, spaghetti. Thus, when I could not find a superb Italian restaurant in Phoenix, I decided to make my own sauce. Sadly, after forty years of practice, I’ve been unable to create anything that compares with either Youngstown, or NYC. I rue the fact I had little interest in learning how to cook in my youth and early adulthood. Certainly, it wasn’t taught in my stupid junior high, home economics classes, nor by my mother, who thought Ragu or Chef Boyardee were quality spaghetti sauces.

My ship sailed when I moved to the desert. Gone were my grandmother’s homemade cinnamon rolls and peach pies, gone were my mom’s orange cookies, and forever gone Italian food. Now, if any of you have recommendations for me as to what restaurant to try, I’m willing. If you have any recipe for me, I’m willing to learn. But realize, I have a distinctive palate: I don’t like vodka, nor wine in sauce. I don’t like sweet sauce. Thank you in advance, the Italian Addict.

As many of you know, I’m going to have a grandson in mid-February, and I’m most delighted. My daughter and son-in-law are considering names, but their choices are currently more plentiful than John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt. Plus, each week I’m told another set of possibilities. Thus, they two grandmothers-to-be decided to take control, particularly since both are first names are Sue.

Not wanting to spend a lot of money on our foolishness, I found a copy of the sheet music, complete with Johnny Cash plastered across the cover. I put it in a cheap frame and pasted a note on top of the frame glass: Both Grandmothers Agree. The expectant couple face-timed both of us giggling, grandmas when they opened it. Talk about a BOMB! Neither my kid, nor my son-in-law had ever even heard the song, let alone could understand the grandmas’ humor!

Our joke was met with meh. (What is a meh, anyway? A muffled sound emitted from a wired-shut mouth?) Yet, all was not lost, for I learned an intriguing trivia fact about A Boy Named Sue. So intriguing I posed this question last week in one of my monthly gigs: Who wrote both the music and lyrics to this Johnny Cash hit? I waited. A few random guesses. I coached–think outside your boxes. A few more random guesses.

Shel Silverstein. See, you learned a random conversation starter for a dull party. You’re welcome.