Sue Skidmore

Crisis on 38th Street

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21994414_10155766019509173_8283207962716558555_oI was working at the computer when my cabana boy rushed into my house.  “Sue, Sue where are you?”

Now since this thirty-year-old is not prone to hysteria, I jumped from chair and sped to the kitchen.  “Matt, what’s up?”

“I’m having a crisis?”

“Really at 2:45 PM on a Tuesday afternoon?  What is it?”

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“My prof just emailed the class and said we’re having a taco potluck tonight.  I’m in charge of the meat!  I’m on break from work; I don’t get off till after 4, and I have to be at class at 5! What am I going to do?  I don’t know how to make taco meat.  Should I go to Taco Bell and try to buy it from them?”

“Do you have the ground beef and seasoning?”

“No.  I’m doomed.”

“Do you want me to save your sorry self?”

“Would you?  Oh, I owe you.  I owe you big time.  Anytime you need something done just let me know.”

By the time Matt returned from work, showered, and changed clothes, the taco meat was bubbling away in the crockpot.  His crisis was resolved.

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“Thank you, thank you, thank you.  You know what’s weird, Sue?  I’m the only guy in the class.  The gals all were assigned things like, chips, tortillas, and sour cream.  I got the one thing I just couldn’t walk into a grocery and buy.”

I smiled, “No.  Not weird, my dear.  You were being tested by the prof.  She wanted to see if you could deliver.  She taught you a subtle lesson on sexism.  So as you plug in the crockpot at class, proudly announce that guys can cook.”  I don’t doubt for one moment that wily prof wasn’t smirking.

 

 

 

 

Validating Student Voice

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Supreme Court Ruling: “Students do not shed constitutional rights of freedom of speech or expression at the schoolhouse gate.” Tinker v. Des Moines, February 24, 1969.  (Unless their acts of expression are disruptive to the educational process.)

Many of the key participants in the Revolutionary War were surprisingly young:

  • Marquis de Lafayette, 18
  • James Monroe, 18
  • Gilbert Stuart, 20
  • Aaron Burr, 20
  • Alexander Hamilton, 21
  • Betsy Ross, 24
  • James Madison, 25

Young people, like the students in our schools and universities.  However, unlike the founding fathers our informational world has shrunk.  Students today are much more aware of global affairs and have key-stroke access to myriads of up-to-the-minute information.  They are socially conscious, they are articulate, creative thinkers, and they don’t want to be murdered in their schools.

In 2012, when 26 were slaughtered at Sandy Hook Elementary School, we gasped in horror.  Even POTUS wept as he met with loved ones of those lost. Yet, school shootings continued.  The recent heinous act in Parkland, Florida, awakened teens across the country.  When I was in Houston earlier this week, my high school teacher/coach niece said her students were suddenly aware.  “Mrs. Cook, Parkland is so similar to us.  It could happen here at TJHS!”

With this new realization, students have held walkouts–all peaceful, most of them where they stood silently for 17 minutes in remembrance of the 17 lost in Parkland.  Thankfully, most school leaders worked with students to ensure their safety by opening their football fields, gymnasiums, or auditoriums to allow the kids to gather for 17 minutes.  Of course, there are a handful of schools who chose to suspend student participants–stupid. A teachable moment lost.

Many of the these high schoolers will vote in 2018.  They will outlive you and me.  We should guide and applaud their activism in hope our world will be a safer, kinder, and more inclusive place than it is now.

Who wants to go dump some tea in Boston Harbor?

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A Greater Heart

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(This is the last of my series on national heart month.)

Sharen is the owner of my ‘hood bar and grill.  She went to school in the ‘hood, raised her family in the ‘hood, and for the last twenty-some years ran a business in the ‘hood.  Her working day begins at 4:40 AM and sometimes doesn’t end until well after 10:00 PM.  Most of the time, I’m in awe of her energy.

This month she opened her establishment to the high school baseball booster club for a fundraiser.  In fact, she hosts three such fundraisers each year: baseball, pom and cheer, and the marching band.  She solicits donations from her vendors, discounts the food and gives the organization a share of the bar business.  In three hours the baseball boosters raised almost $4,000 to support the team.

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Sharen said, “I’m from the ‘hood and a huge supporter of public education.  Occasionally, I do training for wannabe small business owners, where I remind them to be active contributors to their communities.”  She paused, “Sometimes I just wish I could give more.  I do the best I can.”

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America is jammed with good hearts.  Maybe someday we will applaud them with the same enthusiasm we have for an Oscar winner or a MVP.

February 14

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On Wednesday morning I awoke before the alarm and laid in bed surfing my memories.  I was in Miss Snell’s second grade class.  Since I was not very good with scissors, my decorated mailbox (shoebox) looked shabby.  I don’t recall if it was a class rule, by every kid got a valentine from each member of our class.

Now this required labor.  We had to punch out cards, write our name on the back, stuff them in miniature envelopes and address them.  Of course, there were only five choices of valentines, meaning at least 4 or 5 students would receive an identical card from me.  I agonized about the one for Meice (Maurice)–the love of my life.  I finally chose a bear holding a heart–it’s message: Be my valentine. I underlined BE.

When it came time to open our shoeboxes, the boys were busily eating homeroom mom cupcakes, and we girls were searching for the onecard from our love.  I read and reread the nondescript message on the card from Meice.  I cherished it.

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At 11:00 AM, I went to my hair dresser appointment and shared my memory with her.  Her response: “my husband doesn’t like Valentine’s Day.”

Wow!  Who doesn’t? “What’s up with that, Addie?”

“Chip went to a small, rural elementary school in Iowa.  He was short, with a slight build.  When he opened his shoebox, he had one or two cards.  Others would have many.”

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Hard to believe.  Today Chip is a beefcake, highly successful entrepreneur.  However, even at fifty years old, he is a broken little boy, due to unconscious cruelty of other children.  Next year I’ll send Chip a box of chocolates!

Then my Valentine’s Day got worse:  Parkland, Florida.  Seventeen children and faculty assassinated by a sick 19-year-old with an AK-15.  My pleasant memories of February 14th have been shattered forever.

When is enough, enough?

February 14th

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On Wednesday morning I awoke before the alarm and laid in bed surfing my memories. I was in Miss Snell’s, second grade class.  Since I was not very good with scissors, my shoebox valentine box looked shabby.  I don’t recall whether it was a class rule, but every kid got a card from each member of our class.

Now, this required labor.  We had to punch out a card, write our name on the back, stuff it in a miniature envelope and address it.  Of course, there were only five choices of valentines, meaning at least 4 or 5 students would receive an identical card from me.  I agonized about the one for Meice–the love of my life.  I chose a bear holding a heart–it’s message: Be my valentine.  I underlined “BE.”

When the time came to open our valentines, the boys were busily eating homeroom mom cupcakes, and we girls were searching for the one card from our love.  I read and reread the nondescript message from Meice.  I cherished it.

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At 11:00 AM Wednesday, I went to my hair dresser appointment and in our conversation shared my memory.  Her response: “My husband doesn’t like Valentine’s Day.”

Wow!  Who doesn’t?  “What is up with that, Addie?”

“Chip went to a small, rural elementary school in Iowa.  Chip was short, with a slight build.  When he opened his shoebox, he’d have one or two cards.  Others would have many.”

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Hmm. Hard to believe.  Today Chip is a beefcake, highly successful entrepreneur.  However, even at 50 years old, he is a broken little boy, due to the unconscious cruelty of other children.  Had I known this story I would have sent Chip a box of chocolates!

Unfortunately, my Valentine’s Day got worse:  Parkland, Florida.  Seventeen children and faculty assassinated by a sick 19-year-old with an AK-15.  My pleasant memories of February 14th have been shattered forever.

When is enough, enough?

The Ultimate Test Question

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Please explain:  (Hint:  Be sure you understand the meaning of each word, before you write your answer.)

“If a nation expects to be ignorant and free, it expects what never was and never will be.”  Thomas Jefferson

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I shall await your responses.

Gullibility: $

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New-Small-Designer-Slim-Women-Red-font-b-Wallet-b-font-Thin-Zipper-font-b-LadiesMe thinks there is a substantial percentage of American consumers, who are so gullible they pay outrageous prices for routine items.  Of course, my daughters are in that group. To me, a handbag or wallet fulfills a need.  To them, it is a fashion statement.  So I ask you: when was the last time you ogled someone’s wallet at the store checkout?  When was the last time you coveted someone’s choice of paper towels or toilet paper?  When was the last time you envied someone’s plastic bottle of water?

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This week, I was early to an appointment, so I entered a designer grocery–the kind which caters to folk with more money than sense.  I perused the inflated prices: boneless, chicken breasts at $5.99 a pound, broccoli crowns at $4.99 a pound, and the deli was serving $10 a cup coffee.  I found this curious as the day before I paid $1.47 a pound for boneless chicken breasts.  Obviously, something is seriously wrong with my palate.  Chicken is chicken.  Beef, however, is another matter.  (Ribeye steaks are far superior to round steak.)

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Yet, the most outrageous item I saw on my adventure was one, peeled navel orange in a plastic container. It’s price: $6.00!  Had I known folk were so gullible, I would have picked my plentiful oranges, peeled and contained them, and undercut the price by one dollar.  Damn!  I’d be wealthy!  Maybe, next year.

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Oh Package! Where Art Thou?

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Every year I send navel oranges to friends and family.  Since navels are “Christmas oranges,” I usually mail them before the US Post Office gets overwhelmed with packages. And again, this year I did so on December 11.  The boxes went to New York, Ohio, and to Texas.  Since they were sent priority mail, I had tracking slips.

However, I usually get a text or a call from the recipient long before I get around to checking on them.  I’d heard from New York and from Ohio, but not from my sister in Texas.  Curious.  I texted: Did you get the citrus?  “No” was her reply.  Now, I was involved in a mystery, for according to geography, Texas is much closer to Phoenix than NY or OH. I entered the tracking number to find the lost parcel.  OMG!  I was astounded!  The oranges and limes must have decided to go on adventure!

They fled my sister’s Houston suburb, went to downtown Houston–perhaps to ride the Ferris wheel, and then took off to Dallas.  In Dallas, they were sent back to my local post office–less than five miles from my home.  According to tracking, those bad boys arrived on December 18.  Christmas and New Year’s came and went.  No citrus returned.  Weird.

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On January 4, I received a brown envelope from the mailman.  Enclosed was this box top. (Since the original was addressed correctly and neither my sister, nor I want to be deluged with fan mail, I altered the label.)  Also enclosed was a letter, dated December 24 from a Dallas postal facility.  It read:  An empty wrapper with your address was found in the mail and is believed to have been separated from a parcel during handling (see attached portion of the wrapper.) Really?  The package was allegedly in Phoenix on the 18th.  How could the top of a large, flat-rate box been separated from it…unless, someone in the postal service knoshed on oranges and squeezed lime in beer?

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Included was a form to file for missing items.  A laborious form that mandated receipts for whatever was in the box, plus serial and model numbers, sex and size of clothing articles, etc.  I tossed the form.  I have better things to do than worry about errant citrus.  However, the next time I send a box to my sister, it will be filled with….

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2018: Welcome to the 70’s

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I never said, “I’ll be glad to watch this year go; hopefully, next year will be better.”  Every year of my life has brought its challenges and laughter.  Granted, each year has been different–sometimes 360 degrees different, but still each year has been interesting, confounding, and humorous.

As I child, I didn’t like January 1, even though we celebrated my paternal grandfather’s birthday I was bored by the endless, TV football games and dreaded I would go back to school tomorrow.  For me, it was a very long stretch to spring break and summer vacation.  Further, it would be months before the sun shone, the daffodils appeared, and I could rid myself of boots and a winter coat.  I’d be sentenced to a classroom writing a report about George or Abraham, cutting and pasting hearts on doilies, wearing green, ad nauseam.

Admittedly, 2017 changed my life.  While it has been a year of joy and accomplishment, it has been a year of introspection.  Now when a major home improvement needs done, when a big-ticket appliance breaks, when I get the itch for a new car, I make each decision based on a 20-25, year warranty.  Yes, 2018 will bring my 70th birthday.  A most anchoring realization.  I don’t want to replace an air conditioner when I’m eighty, nor dicker with car sales folk.

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Yet, 2018 will also bring my youngest’s 30th birthday and her magical, fifth year as cancer-free, so I’ll suck it up.  I’ll turn 70.  I’ll publish my first novel in collaboration with my brother.  I’ll get another tattoo, buy a puppy, and take a riverboat cruise on the Mississippi, if I can find someone who wants to tag along.  But most importantly,  I’ll throw a big party in celebration of my youngest, fifth cancerversery.

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Let the ball drop, NYC.  Dr. Suze is ready for 2018!  Happy New Year!

 

XYZ: Examine Your Zipper

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Many will recall the childhood comment: XYZ.  Usually, it was made to a boy, who emerged from the lavatory after those stupid, elementary school bathroom breaks.  Perhaps, you’ve experienced them, where the teacher lined up his/her class at the appointed hour and marched them down the hall.  I referred to this practice as pee on demand.

Though invented in 1851, zippers weren’t used in clothing until the 1930’s.  In the 1937, Battle of Fly, the zipper was declared winner over buttons.  This new tailoring idea in men’s trousers promised to prevent the possibility of embarrassment.

In recent weeks XYZ has morphed into headline stories, graphic dalliances of sexual harassment, even rape, have been exposed.  Certainly, rumors of the “Hollywood casting couch” have been around for years, but both men and women victims remained silent.  Now, it seems to be a pervasive epidemic propagated by those in power over the powerless.  Further, fueled by fear of losing a starring role, a job, or even getting a good grade in a college course.

Finally, victims found their voice.  Unnamed predators are probably suffering from sleepless nights and wobbly knees.  And thankfully, this week voters rejected a known creep, who advertised himself as an upright, moral man.

My advice to the powerful is simply: XYZ.  None of your employees, nor teenagers shopping at the mall are interested in your sausage.  And in this case, it doesn’t pay to advertise.