I realize it’s been a number of weeks since I blogged.  No, thankfully, I’ve not been ill.  Just too busy doing “must dos.”

My eldest just moved from Phoenix to Aiken, SC for a new position.  Was it traumatic or dramatic? Of course, I’d spent over two years being back in her life.  Now, both of my girls reside east of the Mississippi, and I’ve no family here.

I cried and felt sorry for myself…alone again.  (Except for my dogs, whom adore me.)  My recovery came last night.  I recalled a phone conversation with my maternal grandmother.  “Grandma, I can hardly believe, my youngest is going to kindergarten; it makes me weep.  I’ll no longer have a baby.”

She retorted, “Sue, that’s silly and stupid. Just be glad she has sense enough to go to school.”

And so it is with parenting.  As a parent, my sole responsibility is to raise morally and ethically good citizens, whom contribute to the proverbial greater good.  Who are educated and empathetic to those in need.  Who care more about the plight of others, who are not insular, who never give up in adversity.  Just like the larva, who leaves the cocoon and morphs into a beautiful butterfly, my job is to set my kids free!

Besides, my kids probably are delighted to have escaped their cantankerous, crazy mom.

 

 

 

I suspect like many of my readers,  our adult children moved out and moved on. Certainly, was my case, but they left behind lots of stuff from their childhood.  My youngest was an avid Beanie Baby collector; so much so, we had to scour the airport shops and every toy store both in Phoenix and wherever we traveled.  At the time, Beanie Babies were a bigger craze than Tickle Me Elmo or Furbies.

Today, Beanie Babies are worthless, unless you have the original Princess Diana, the McDonald’s international bears, Peace the Bear, Iggy the Iguana, Gobbles the Turkey, Patti the Platypus, Snort the Red Bull, and Claude the Crab.  If you can find a buyer, these have the potential of earning you upwards to $50,000! But again, the rest of the collection is practically worthless.

Last week I saw a Facebook post about someone who donated her kid’s Beanies to the school librarian.  In turn, the librarian created adoption tags for each; however, no student would qualify to adopt, unless he/ she agreed to read to the pet 20 minutes a day. A brilliant idea to motivate our social media-indoctrinated kids.

With permission of my daughter, I donated 40 or so to our neighborhood school, media specialist–the adoption took off like a monsoon.  The children were so jazzed about not only adopting, but about pledging to read to their pets.  Thus, before purging your house of unwanted stuffed animals, talk to an elementary school librarian/media specialist.  Let’s work together to make our kids thoughtful readers, not internet junkies.

When I undertook writing my second novel in which DNA played an integral role, I was boggled by its science.  True, science never has been my strongest suit; I was mystified.  What did all these fancy schmancy terms mean to a schlep like me?  Thus, I had only one choice: test my DNA.

While there are a number of commercial kits available, I chose the one with the highest consumer-star rating.  Thankfully, I’d read the instructions prior; I knew the protocol.  Several days later, I massaged my saliva glands.  I spit in the bottle.  WTH? Not enough.  Massage, massage, spit.  Still not enough. (Perhaps this is how cows feel when they’re asked to fill the gallon jar.)  I milked my saliva until the spit container was full.  Dropped it in the envelope and mailed it off.

Now, I was fairly sure I wouldn’t encounter any surprises about my heritage, even though I had to agree I understood at the onset, highly personal ancestral information might be discovered.  When the results came, they confirmed: 99.6% northwestern European; Neanderthal ancestry; descendent of Ava, a prehistoric woman from northern Scotland over 4,000 years ago; 2,013 second, third, fourth, and fifth cousins in the company’s current, data base–105 in California, 70 in Texas, etc.  In fact, I’m most certain I’ve a second cousin in Tennessee I’ve never met.

My personal health profile was thankfully worry free.  After reviewing my personal trait profile,  6 were not me, e.g less likely to experience motion sickness. (One cruise was enough for me.) However, the remaining 27 traits were indeed accurate, e.g. likely no cleft chin, nor unibrow.

Spit. Who knew my spit could reveal such interesting facts?

(NOTE: New novel coming this fall: Secret of Lake Brier set in the fictional, steel town of Lewiston, Ohio.  Many of my Ohio readers will absolutely know Lake Brier.)

 

 

 

Granted I rarely agree with anything our President says, but he’s spot on when he coined the term, fake news. In fact, he tweets much of it himself, e.g. his adoration in El Paso and his explanation of Epstein’s hanging.

But this week, I’ve seen a plethora of fake news in social media: Denzel Washington Leaves the Democratic Party,  The CIA was responsible for the mass murders in El Paso and Dayton, and Global warming is not true.  Quite frankly, I’m appalled by the ignorance of many, whom seem to believe if it’s on the internet, it’s true.

OMG! Are these the folk who still believe the world is flat?  Do they believe this beauty product is going to make them young? Do they believe this toothpaste will restore their teeth? Advertising is all about selling, not factual information.  All of this reminds me of PT Barnum, the world’s greatest showman–there’s a sucker born every minute.

What is most frightening, though, is as the 2020 election draws near, more and more of these outrageous, non-factual, non-researched posts will flood social media. Foreign countries will influence with lunatic assertions.  People will believe it!

My heart breaks as an educator. I’ve failed.  Obviously, my colleagues and I didn’t teach fact vs. fiction.

On Tuesday, our school district will welcome 31,000+ students to school.  And though I have vivid memories of my excitement and anticipation when I entered kindergarten, I wonder about some of the older children who will enter our schools.

In the last 24 hours, America has experienced two mass shootings.  Twenty-nine people are dead, 40 or so are injured.  Why? For going to a Texas Walmart or an Ohio restaurant.  People have been mowed down at churches and synagogues, at movies theaters, at malls, at festivals, and yes, unfortunately at schools.  Our children must wonder if any place is safe; they must wonder about hate; they must wonder why.

As you know, I’ve been a school board member for 19 years.  There has not been/nor is one night I go to bed without praying for our children. My focus is no longer on test scores or instructional practices; I’m consumed with worry for their safety.  Further, I realize I’m incapable of guaranteeing child safety, in spite of all of the measures taken since Sandy Hook.  I can not build the walls high enough, nor deep enough to keep evil out.

I’m frustrated by the elephants in my nation, who obviously think AK-47’s should be as readily available to any teenager as hamburgers and French fries.  And, I’m very tired of the rhetoric.  I gag when I read or hear thoughts and prayers. America is awash with aberrant behavior, greedy politicians, and powerful lobbyists.

I find it curious the President Lincoln and his son, Tad, took daily walks on the streets of Washington, DC, while our current President has already spent $110 million playing golf!  Our money for his protection and security.

So, I humbly ask once again–when is enough, enough?  Sadly, I suspect many of our students on Tuesday will ask their teachers the same question. What shall we answer?

Please know this is not about the random calls I receive from either the IRS, not the federal government about going to jail if I fail to return the call. On a more esoteric level, it’s about “a calling.”

A colleague and friend of mine is a Mormon, and she’s always talking about someone “being called” as a bishop or stake president.  Common terminology found from Catholics to Presbyterians.  Common terminology found in the health professions.  For me, it took years to discover I had been “called.”

Since my parents financed my college education, they expected me to get a job at graduation.  Me? I was an English major, lolling about reading, discussing, and writing. I planned on writing the great American novel, until the reality of graduation drew closer.  So, I took enough really stupid education courses–yes in the late 60’s I learned how to thread a huge movie projector, operate a sinister, purple mimeograph machine, and decorate a bulletin board.  The first time I stood in front of a class was Spring Semester of my senior year–student teaching.  Thankfully, I had an encouraging cooperating teacher, and I found the gig moderately entertaining.  At the conclusion of my student-teaching, my cooperating teacher said, “You must teach; you have the gift.” Really?  Teaching is a gift? There must be another job that’s more lucrative and fun.

Forty-nine years ago, I landed my first teaching job, and within three months, I was hooked! I was called. And 49 years later, I still occasionally teach and continue my service on a large suburban, school board.

In a few weeks, the 2019-2020 school year will begin.  Rest assured, your children and/or grandchildren will encounter a vast majority of those of us, whom have been called to lead our future to their success.  I assure you your children are in good hands.

 

 

Several weeks ago, I wrote a blog about the incarceration of children.  Some of you wrote: “Have them come here legally.”  Really?  When the Von Trapps chose to flee Austria, did they leave their children behind?  The children had NO choice but to follow their parents or to survive alone on the street. (I urge your advice as to what two or three-year-old can survive on the street. Mine certainly would have been unable.)

Secondly, most Americans have ancestors whom didn’t enter our country “legally.”  Federal laws were eventually enacted, but many of the laws were state laws, eg. Ellis Island enrollment.  Certainly, the native Americans didn’t require the Pilgrims to establish proof of citizenship.  And if you’re still not convinced, take the 23andMe saliva test;  doubtful, your ancestry is not American.

Yes, it’s been three weeks since my last blog on children in cages.  Nothing has changed.  As a humanitarian, I fully realize there’s nothing I can do but vote and air my voice.  So, I ordered 500 business card-size magnets, which I wear proudly on the back of my cars.  I hand them out to others, whom are as appalled as me.  If you’d like some, private message me.  They’re free.  Join me in doing the right thing.

 

 

I struggle with this question several times a day. I look at my dogs, whom are well-fed, taken regularly to the groomer and the vet, and have a free rein of my house. Yes, they even sleep in my king-size bed every night. But my moral compass is consumed by the migrant children living in squalor, incarcerated by our government.

Many of these children are under six-years-old.  They didn’t ask to be brought here. They were stripped away from their parents, and no one thought to identify their parentage.  “Non-profit” companies, (yes, I use that term loosely) are being paid $700 a day, per child to care for them.  Really?  Sleeping on concrete floors, denied outside recreation time, denied health care, soap, and toothbrushes.  Locked in cages!

Further, morally-driven humanitarian groups have brought supplies, such as toothbrushes, diapers, blankets, etc. only to be turned away by these “non-profits.” Wayfair donated mattresses–refused.  The New York Times editorial Saturday labeled this situation: A Mass Atrocity. An atrocity, not only for these children, but for all of us.

As I said earlier this week, I would welcome the opportunity to foster four or five of these children.  I’m willing to retrieve them, care for them, educate them, feed and clothe them until they can be reunited with their families.  All for free! I would never take that filthy, unconscionable $700 per day.  Damn!  If I took five kids for one month that equates to over $100,000 in 30 days! Our money, lest we forget.

Frankly, I’m nauseated by our Congress, the bully, and the holier than thou Vice President, who do nothing to end this madness.  My America is far better than this; my America would not sit back; my America would rise to the occasion.

Yes, I’m a mom. Yes, I taught Sunday school for 10 or so years, and yes, I taught each of my classes to sing:  Jesus loved the little children. All God’s children of the world. Red, and yellow, back, and white. They are precious in His sight.

 

Despicable.  WWJD?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Some years ago, I posited the need for a 51st State, and it seemingly sparked to interest.  Allow me, to begin with a history lesson.  Look closely at this 1824 map.  Yes, Mexico owned all of this land, and through wars and treaties part of it became US states.

To me, it makes cogent sense to offer Mexico the opportunity to be the 51st state for the following reasons:

• It is rich with natural resources.
• It has numerous ports, where goods could be easily transported in and out.
• Its vast coastal line and beaches are beautiful.  A tourism Mecca!
• The average Mexican is extremely motivated with outstanding work ethics.
• To the average Mexican, family is everything.

Of course, Mexico is fraught with corruption.  Its government preys on its people.  Minimum daily wages are deplorable. Drug cartels are the true rulers. Its public school system is abysmal.

Yes, my idea is fraught with problems, but what if:

• We sent in the National Guard to eradicate the cartel stronghold?
• We guaranteed democratic elections and ousted the corruptive forces in power?
• We trained and monitored their police force?
• We guaranteed minimum wages?
• We improved health care?
• We established free public education for K-12?
• We taxed them accordingly?

Then there would be no need for billions of dollar walls.  The American way would permit the vast majority to no longer live in abject poverty and to no longer pay monthly protection money to the cartels and/or corrupt law enforcement.

Of course, this could not happen without civil discourse and negotiation.  Yet, in my naivete, it seems to be a discussion worth having.  In fact, with the gorgeous Sea of Cortez only 4 hours from my casa, I’d be first in line to buy a condo in Puerto Penasco (Rocky Point.)

Perhaps, my simplistic idea is absurd.  We’d probably screw it up by trashing their culture, their heritage, and their language.  Yet, throughout America, Little Italy, Chinatown, etc. exist.  There’s no reason to decimate culture and language.  If they want to remain bilingual as the Navajo or Hopi nations, fine with me.

If you find my idea somewhat rational, write your congressional representative and senators.  Thank you.

Phoenix temperatures are soaring.  My fabulous spring garden is just several days away from death.  Even Satan, himself, has left town for San Diego.

With that being said, a month ago I inventoried my shorts in anticipation of my stay at the beach in North Carolina and the Arizona heat.  Damn.  Not one pair fit.  It seems my FitBit made me walk too many steps.  I needed to buy five new pairs to survive the summer.

Since I’m neither a golfer nor a tennis player, I prefer shorts with pockets. Nothing fancy, nothing with a designer label; I’m not out to impress anyone at the grocery store.  I went to the mall, Target, TJ Max, Ross, and searched.  Women’s sizes fell off me.  I even tried on shorts from junior departments.  While some of them fit, they also advertised more than I would ever share in public–sagging butt and thighs.  Unacceptably, short.  You ladies, know what I’m saying.

I prefer bermuda-length, shorts.  When I shopped for those, the vast majority were priced well above $30 a pair.  Help!  Time’s awastin’! Shorts are shorts.  Right?

I went to Carolina Beach with five, new pairs of shorts, which totaled less than $50.  Each day, folk would say, “Where did you get those cute shorts?”  Even when I returned to Phoenix, two grocery store patrons inquired the same.  Hey, I could have said Nordstrom or Bloomingdale. But I’m a straight-shooter.

“The boys’ department at Walmart, for $8.96 a pair.”

“But, Sue, they’re so cute with the flamingoes. I love the birds of paradise.”

Long ago, I figured out some simple truths:  shorts are shorts. The only differences between boy’s shorts and girl’s shorts are: girl’s cost more, and girl’s button right to left, while boy’s button left to right.  Now since I’m not in the habit of staring at folks’ waists,  I don’t ogle others, nor has anyone ever asked why I was wearing boy’s shorts

Of course, I’ve pricey business suits, dresses, pants, and shoes, but I’ve never been caught up in fashion trends, nor designer labels.  Certainly, by the end of summer, my size will change again, and I’ll donate my shorts to Goodwill. And until then, I’ll be honest about where I buy my shorts, and I will not advertise by saggy butt!