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!

 

 

Yes, I realize I’ve not blogged in weeks.  Cut me some slack, between end of the year school district business, graduation, and a wedding.

As many of you know, I’ve been blessed with household repairs for the last eight years.  A month ago, I had to have to major household repairs, including a new air conditioner and a hot water heater.  Yesterday, I was boiling a pot of chicken breasts for my epicurean dogs, and the cooktop stopped functioning.  Since the cooktop is less than two-years old, I attempted to trouble shoot.  I threw the breaker and reset.  Nothing.  I waited hour–nothing.  The timer worked, the burners didn’t.  After a variety of expletives, I went off to Home Depot to buy another.

The salesman was uninformed and bumbling.  He told me it would be three weeks before it could be delivered and installed!  Three weeks of grilling!  Unacceptable. I wanted to cry.  I went to major appliance store, selected the model, and asked when it could be delivered and installed.  MONDAY!  Hooray.  Plus, his quote was less than that of the Depot.  I was happy.

Several hours later, as I was removing zucchini bread loaves from the oven, I managed to bump one of the cooktop burners.  Holy s#@t!  The burner turned on.  I turned on the other three–damn!  They all lit.  A little, evil voice whispered in my ear, “Cancel your order, Sue.”  For some reason, I didn’t.  I turned on each burner again. Dead.

At dinner time, I longed for fried zucchini.  I turned on the burner–it worked!  I began to fry the vegetable.   Halfway through the process, the burner died.  By the now, I was either nuts or the dastardly cooktop was haunted.  Haunted by some evil elf who takes great pleasure in twisting my sanity.  Had the neighborhood Catholic Church not burned down recently, I would have gone in search of holy water to rid my casa of this despicable spirit.

Currently (no pun intended), all of the burners are working.  Yet, I know this appliance is haunted.  It’s going to live with Jesus tomorrow AM.

My alternative title:  High School Graduation: A Tale of Two Schools.

In most Phoenix area high schools, graduation is scheduled before Memorial Day.  For many of our students, the event marks the end of their formal, education.  It is a celebratory experience for not only the kids, but for their families and friends.  And since I’ve just finished steaming my gown for the 19th time, I find myself in a quandary about the intrusiveness of adults and their righteous rules. (Remember, students must buy their own caps and gowns.  Their property, not ours.)

Case #1: A valley high school in the Dysart School District intends to ban a student for decorating her cap and gown to with beads and feathers to reflect her Sioux heritage.  However, the school district’s policy dictates that caps and gowns cannot be decorated, and only “school-approved, academic regalia are allowed.”  Then, the district added, ” We appreciate the desire of students to honor cultural traditions….traditional clothing or footwear under the gowns are welcomed.”  In short, one tradition has been overridden by another’s culture or tradition.

Case #2: On Friday, I met with the principal and her assistant at the high school where I’m scheduled to present diplomas.  Now, this is a large, diverse high school with students from a variety of cultures.  Their number 1 graduate immigrated from Russia at the onset of her freshman year; she knew NO English when she entered.  Additionally, this high school has the International Baccalaureate program, which attracts superstars.

“Dr. Skidmore, I must tell you when I became principal a year ago I was very uncomfortable with the graduation rules–as uncomfortable as many of our students.  This is a celebration for kids.  Almost two dozen will be the first member of their family to graduate.  Our community prides itself on inclusion.  I met with student leaders, and the rules were changed.  In short, no graduate can insult, disparage, or display profanity. Drugs, or alcoholic messages are prohibited.  But we permitted the decorating of caps and gowns to reflect culture and tradition.  Students had/have the opportunity to buy stoles that are representative of the Native American or the Hispanic culture. Students may wear leis and other jewelry.  In short, we adults worked collaboratively with our kids to permit reasonable self-expression.”

While some of you may be appalled by my reaction, I’m thrilled by these adults who recognize and applaud student diversity.  What appalls me is the current head of our nation openly mocking a disabled news reporter, name calling senators and representatives, and bragging about evading paying his taxes. What appalls me is his latest demand for teaching Bible classes in the public schools, when the US Constitution clearly delineates the separation of church and state.  After all, he certainly does not adhere to the Ten Commandments.

Yes, I’m 70 years old.  I’m not a flaming liberal, nor a rabid conservative.  I’m just an old broad, who believes in our children.  And I will be very proud to shake their hands when they cross the stage, regardless of beads, feathers, serapes, or leis.