I find his insults of women most appalling but had no desire to go public about them until…his trash talk about “childless cat women teachers,” who prey on our children. Not only was his stupidity showing, his knowledge of American education is glaring. In the 1800’s, women teachers were NOT allowed to marry. School boards wanted young women to devote their entire lives to educating children. God forbid, if they hired a married teacher, who became pregnant. In fact, this practice continued until after World War II and in some states wasn’t abolished until the Civil Rights Act was passed in 1964. Of course, this practice bolstered the “she’s just a teacher” when it came to salary. “She” doesn’t need much money, “she” has no family to feed, “she” just does this for love of children, and “she” has no social life.

Like you, J.D., I was born in Ohio, and I went to kindergarten in 1953. During my K-6 experience, I had four, unmarried, female teachers, and none of them corrupted me. And by the way, though they were childless, one of them had a dog, another a parakeet, and one them had a fish tank full of guppies. Fortunately, my classmates and I weren’t scarred for life when we witnessed the live birth of baby fish.

Sadly, many years later, I learned Miss Peddlar, my fifth grade teacher, was indeed married. She chose not to broadcast it because her original contract required she be single. Perhaps, it was to keep her reputation as the most demanding teacher in Washington School! Yet, her demanding ways improved my cursive handwriting, taught me how to memorize, and greatly influenced my passion for learning.

Yes, J.D., I’ve read Hillbilly Elegy and have seen the movie. You only succeeded because of your grandmother and your teachers. Without them, you, would not be a vice-presidential candidate today. Think about that before you make these disparaging remarks about teachers. Better yet, admit to yourself and your minions that you would be nothing without the teachers who taught you to read and to add two and two together.

Yes, I do have a lot of dogs–four of mine, one I inherited, and one who belongs to my tenant. Yes, a half-dozen canines roam my acre property. A year ago, my golden doodle escaped from her collar and leash as we entered the vet’s office, and ran back and forth a six-lane highway. It was truly a miracle she wasn’t killed, but given the 112-degree heat that day, she suffered a heat stroke and seriously burned her four paws. To this day, I have PTSD every time I drive through that intersection, and she has developed extreme anxiety in many situations. Thus, I decided I’d no longer take her to the vet I’d use a mobile service when necessary that comes to my casa.

When the vet and her tech came on Friday, I wasn’t quite prepared. “Didn’t you get our text?”

“No, I was rather surprised by your early arrival.”

“We apologize. We must have had the wrong number. Check it, Allison.”

Allison scrolled through her laptop, “The message was flagged and not sent.”

Both the vet and I asked in unison, “Why?”

“Unacceptable language. I guess the AI censors didn’t like: Arriving in 15 minutes for our appointment with Fanny.”

I laughed, “I named her Fanny Brice after the Broadway musical Funny Girl because I’m a fan of the musical and the film. The only other Fanny I knew was my great aunt whose really name was Frances. But my late neighbor, who was English, was horrified I named a sweet puppy, Fanny. ‘Sue, you need to change her name; it’s really a filthy word in England.’ And when she told me, it was filthy.”

Certainly, as an English major, I believe there must be some acceptable standards of word usage in writing, but I am uncomfortable with some AI bot lifting a word from context and serving as the censor police. The next time I need a GO VETS visit I’ll make an appointment for Frances, Francine, or Fantasia.

As college graduation neared, our talk turned to employment. Several of my fabulous-looking sorority sisters applied to be and became flight attendants. Obviously, that wasn’t a career-choice for me because I was not attractive enough, nor liked to fly that much. Secondly, I had no desire to be in sales. I didn’t want to travel hither and yon five days a week, sleep in cheap hotels, and spend hours peddling wares.

Yesterday I was reminded of how awful and frustrating it must be to be a road warrior. Yes, I flew home on the worst travel day this year. (At least that’s what the news channel dubbed it this morning.) My simple, one-stop, six-hour air trip morphed in 13 hours! Flights across the country were cancelled leaving thousands standing in customer service lines or wandering aimless around killing time. At first, I told myself to just relax–nothing I can do about it. After all, I was only delayed a half-hour. But then I received numerous alerts that continued to change the departure time. The last message stated a four and a half hour delay. Now, I was torqued. How could I occupy my time for so long? Particularly in an airport that doesn’t sell newspapers.

Fortunately, I found a seat at the bar in an overly jammed restaurant and struck up a conversation with the bartender. Not only was she amusing, but her stories snapped me out of my poor, pitiful Sue mood. Little did I know this madness began on Friday afternoon when all flights in and out of Charlotte were grounded. One of her customers told her he’d been sitting in the airport for 38 hours. Her second story, though, was poignant. The elderly grandparents were on their way to DC to visit their four year-old-grand daughter, who they don’t get to see very often. “I bought her a snow globe filled with butterflies, but TSA threw it away because of the liquid,” she said through her tears.

But the worst story was told by my seat mate on the late flight back to Phoenix. His non-stop trip to Denver was cancelled, so the airline rerouted him: Phoenix to Los Angeles to Portland to Denver. Supposedly, he would arrive in Denver at 11:30 this morning–just in time to make his noon meeting. I was ashamed of myself for silently cursing my fate after this guy’s tale. “Wow. You must be really upset. You’re going to be flying around all night.”

“No, I’m used to it. Can’t do anything about public transportation, and certainly can’t do anything about the weather. You’ve got to roll with it.”

“Or re-career,” I thought. Never did I ever want to be a….

This week I was charged with the responsibility of helping someone plan a 70th birthday party, and she wanted me to find an age-appropriate game(s). This endeavor led me to think about when I’d earned a bit of sense and was not as stupid as I was in prior years. Of course, my recent birthday reminded me I was well on my way to being 80 in four years, but in 1974, unlike my friend’s 70 year-old sister, I was 26.

Thankfully, Etsy offers a variety of printable games for a pittance, and I discovered what I did and did not recall 50 years later. I knew Richard Nixon resigned as President; I knew Muhammad Ali defeated George Foreman in Rumble in the Jungle, I knew Stephen King’s first published novel was Carrie, and I knew that Ray Stevens sang the iconic song, The Streak. (Who can forget, don’t look, Ethel!)

However, my greatest downfall were prices of goods in 1974. Even when I afforded myself a little leeway on guessing the right amount, without going over the actual, retail price, I failed miserably. A loaf of bread was 28 cents, a dozen eggs was 78 cents, a gallon of gas was 53 cents, and the average car cost $4,441. Ah, the good old days–when the minimum wage was $2.00 per hour!

At 76, though, I’ve no desire to return to 1974. I adore and embrace modern devices, such as the internet, cell phones, microwave ovens, streaming TV, and solar lighting. I love that Alexa plays any tune I request, and that Siri is my personal assistant. (Admittedly, I do wear a tie-dyed tee from my friend’s diner, re-watch Blazing Saddles, and sing along to Rikki Don’t Lose That Number.) Just don’t make me wear bell-bottoms again!