Beforewords

Before it was NOROVIRUS! we called it stomach flu and it wasn't CONTAGIOUS!, it was just going around. But then, we weren't on cruise ships where it is a  national newsworthy problem.

HAND SANITIZER used to be called soap and, no surprise, hand washing is still the best germicide.

Before it was GLOBAL WARMING/CLIMATE CHANGE! we called it weather, and only the laughably superstitious thought we could control it.

Before it was a FETUS, we called it a baby. And we knew, even without ultrasound, that no one gave birth to a BLOB OF TISSUE or PRODUCT OF CONCEPTION.

What we now call SOCIAL ENGINEERING, used to be called propaganda and it was a bad thing.

GAY SEX was called perversion. Gay used to mean light hearted and happy.

MARRIAGE was one man and one woman vowing to stay together for life. If homosexuals want to redefine marriage, they should at least come up with their own word and stop stealing ours.

     Instead of pounding the populace with political correctness until we accept new meanings for familiar words, those who want to change our culture should just make something up. After all, they did that with morals.

   

Free to Do So

   
      Today is Memorial Day which, despite advertising, is not about home improvement projects, or  camping, or picnics, or a day off of work. It is a day to honor those who have died in defense of our country. I would like to dedicate this blog to that purpose.

 Those who feel the U.S.A had lost its greatness are free to do so.
 Those who think America uses its military might to oppress, rather than free from oppression, are free to do so.
 Those who believe our enemies, like bees, won't bother us unless we bother them, are free to do so.
 Those who argue that our nation prospered despite the faith and patriotic fervor of our founding fathers, instead of because of it, are free to do so.
  Those who consider the light of freedom no longer worth protecting, much less sharing, with the world, are free to do so.

  But they are free to do so because of those who believe that our nation and freedom are worth living for, and fighting for and, if necessary, dying for. And those are who we recognize today. In their honor I post the following poem:

 Today I am Free

Today I am free

to remember or forget

soldiers whose names I do not know,

who died in battles long ago

and those who perish yet,

in middle eastern sands

or other distant lands.

Today I am free

to berate or celebrate

the U.S.A. with all its flaws,

unfair taxes, unjust laws,

who excludes the God who made her great.

I fight government’s grasping touch

because I have so much.

Today I am free

to honor or condemn;

to sit in safety and abhor

the very thought of death and war,

or proudly be American

like those who bought my liberty.

Today I am free.

Taking Steps

     I am taking steps to make my uncooperative left knee stable, steps like doing every knee exercise I can think of plus twice weekly physical therapy, but I have been taking those steps for weeks now. The first step I want to mention is called the Sponge Bob. After the initial sore, but stable, phase where I could get around slowly but surely with a cane, my knee began to feel like a sponge. That spongy feeling caused my leg to bob down every time I used it, hence the name. Since I did not feel normal people were ready to learn the Sponge Bob, I used crutches in public.
     The next step was the Australian Crawl, where I swam my way around the kitchen with one arm reaching out to the counter at all times. In the rest of the house, where there were no handholds, I used one crutch. I learned to do lots of things clutching a crutch--one crutch vacuuming, one crutch laundry hauling, unloading groceries, etc. The One Crutch Clomp resembles the Peg Leg Lumber but includes making your armpit sore. In public I used two crutches. No need to show off how buff my armpit had become.
    When my leg no longer needed a crutch to keep it from collapsing, I circumnavigated the house using the Spiderman Swing. This dance not only involves using handholds but getting enough momentum to propel you from handhold to handhold, as if you were on erratic monkey bars. Between swings I could support myself if my knee was fairly bent. This position adds a dramatic dip to the choreography.
     Throughout this time, whenever I was in a grocery store I practiced the Cartwheel. This is not the cartwheel in which gymnasts start from a standing position and wheel the body sideways, landing first on the hands and then on the feet. What I mean by Cartwheel is walking by supporting myself with a shopping cart. I have been going up and down every aisle of our local grocery stores and have become a semi-pro on which stores have the most therapeutic shopping carts. Costco has big, sturdy carts, but the center of gravity is so high it makes my knee less stable. Also, most Costco shoppers are too hard core to make way for a cripple taking a shopping cart for a Sunday drive. On the other hand, the grocery carts at Smiths are a perfect fit. It is as if they were manufactured with a middle aged, 5'4" woman with a bum knee in mind.  I am getting faster at dancing the Cartwheel.
     The stage I am at now, and what I hope is my final step before walking in a normal, upright position, is the One-Legged Aboriginal Shuffle. In this dance I walk normally with my right leg and, with the left leg slightly bent, take a short step that faintly pounds the floor in a manner similar to the two-legged version that is traditional among the aborigines of Australia. This position gives me good stability for short distances and, instead of dipping down, I get to pop up straight whenever I reach a handhold.
     Since I was put through these same paces after my knee replacement two years ago, I know the day will come when I can step forward with my leg straight and walk without having to focus on the activity as if I was doing quantum physics. When that day comes, the only unstable body part I will have to deal with--is my mind.
     

    

The Winds That Blew

     I am actually working on a humorous blog entry, but it is not quite ready yet. And this poem, which has been forming in my mind for a few weeks, finally girded itself with words today. It is another poem expressing my grief over losing my granddaughter. It is probably not the last, but perhaps they will be less frequent than they are now. If God gave me poetry as a coping mechanism, I must use His gift as, and when, He chooses.

 The Winds That Blew

In later April, nearly May

I watched the petals blow away

from bushes where the berries grow

that feed the birds through winter’s snow.

A cool wind stole the tiny blooms.

It made me think of you, my child,

torn from my arms by tempests wild

between your mother and my son.

My time as your grandma is done

I tell my heart, but love won’t hear.

You, my grandchild, fed my soul,

warmed it against the coming cold.

Fresh as a blossom in my hand,

I hope that you can understand

I did not choose to leave you.

I could not stop the winds that blew,

the storm that parted me from you.

My plans for all the years ahead

are scattered like the petals shed

when spring blows cold as winter.

1000 Small Sorrows

     When a loss first happens, there is big sorrow, a time of great grieving, but most of the grief happens in small, daily doses. A few weeks ago I lost my granddaughter, McKenzie, not to death, but when my son and her mother broke up. I cried. . . hard. . . a couple times. But now I have reached the phase of small sorrows:

• seeing her picture on the wall and wondering if I will ever see her again
• looking with longing at Woodland Park, where she loved to play 
• seeing the fruit roll ups she loved to eat in the cupboard
• finding the playdough we made together in the crayon box 
• driving past the part of town where she lives
• finding out her mother did not let her continue dance lessons I paid for
• hearing the music from "Frozen"
• seeing the blue shirt I bought for her birthday and never got to give her
• realizing we will not be going to the swimming pool or lake together this summer
• wondering how McKenzie is dealing with her feelings with fewer coping skills
• . . .

     These are the 1000 small sorrows that heal my grief on a daily basis. But it doesn't feel like healing. It feels like reopening a wound.

My Heart Finds a Way

      I have been waiting for this poem to come for the three weeks since my son and his fiance broke up. Poetry has been my outlet for emotion for many years now, and I knew eventually I would be able to express my sorrow over losing my granddaughter.

 My Heart Finds a Way

You were just a stranger when you came into my life,

but as welcome as a blue skied day,

you would be my grandchild when my son married your mom,

so I loved you, my heart found a way.

Just a smiling stranger, when you first came to my house

I looked on as you and momma played.

Before long us blued-eyed gals were giggling side by side.

We’d become friends, our hearts found a way.

But your mother did not become my son’s wife

and they both have walked away,

leaving me no place to be a grandmother to you.

Can I let go? My heart must find a way.

Though I always knew this day might come

and parting was the price we would pay,

still it’s not as costly as holding back on love.

I can’t see you, but you’re in my heart to stay.

There are many things in life that we cannot control--

my mind says goodbye, but my heart says stay.

I am not a stranger to the grief that tears me now.

I am waiting for my heart to find a way.

Doesn't It Make More Sense?

     I believe the biggest logical fallacy of our time is that correlation equals causation. A simple example of this is that most murderers are right handed. This is because most people are right handed, not because being right handed drives people to murder. There are a plethora of studies linking one thing to another, each implying that whatever their particular emphasis is significantly influences a behavior or condition. A recent example of this has been our governor's push for preschool education, citing a study showing children who attend preschool are less likely to become criminals later in life. But doesn't it make more sense that since most preschools now are private pay, the parents willing to invest in paying for preschool are also more involved in every other area of their child's development? Involved parents are less likely to raise criminals. The same argument applies to why I have noticed more overweight students in the public school choir than in the Christian school. Parents willing to sacrifice that much because they care what goes into their children's minds also care what goes into their bodies. Christian school doesn't make you slim. Here are a few other examples.

     Antidepressants now come with a warning about increased risk of suicide, especially in young people. But doesn't it make more sense that since virtually all suicides are committed by depressed people, and that depressed people are more likely to be taking antidepressants, the suicides are linked to the depression, not the meds. This is especially true for young people who would be unlikely to need antidepressants for the other health conditions they are sometimes used to treat in adults.

     At the 2012 primaries, a lot of Democrats voted Republican for the first time and chose fairly liberal candidates. This fueled theories that the Democrats were conspiring to get bad Republican candidates on the November ballot. But doesn't it make more sense that Democrats, unhappy with their party over Obamacare cramming, voted for Republicans most like the Democrats they had previously chosen.

     If you search the internet, you will find studies linking being overweight and/or diabetes to consumption of french fries/soda/wheat/doughnuts/you name it. But doesn't it make more sense that these things are single elements of a generally unhealthy lifestyle rather than causes themselves.

     Between the general misunderstanding of the relationship of correlation versus cause, the biases of study sponsors and/or those of the researchers themselves, the information age has become the misinformation age, of which sloppy journalism is just one of the signs. I don't have studies to verify my conclusions, but doesn't it just make sense?