Random Thoughts

Book Review #5 - The Martha's Vineyard Beach and Book Club

noreply@blogger.com (Deanne) — Sat, 24 Jan 2026 19:46:00 +0000

Disclaimer - I won this book in a giveaway from the publisher with an expectation that a review would be provided, although not required.

The book has a few underlying themes - the Haves and Have Nots being one of them. Two friends, unlikely though they may be, work at a beach resort during the Second World War. I say unlikely friends because one is a Have and the other a definite Have Not. Apparently, the ongoing war had no impact on the summer women who still came to hang out on the beach to tan and read their books for their book club, when they weren't paying Cadence to read it for them and give them the synopsis. Their book club not being the one later formed by Cadence and Bess (the Have in the friendship) for their own purposes.

Did I enjoy the book, yes. Did I love it, no. I did want to learn the ending, but I wasn't dying to get there.

The story is primarily told by the two main sisters of the book - Cadence and Briar Smith- although others get a turn as well. Their brother Tom is in love with Bess, who lives with the family, and remains there after Tom heads off to serve in the war. The story is shared in back-and-forth chapters between the sisters. That can sometimes be a little tough to follow in that each character is telling in first person and you sometimes have to remind yourself who the "I" is in that chapter.

Briar's share of the story is mostly her fascination with the War. The soldiers training on the beach. Her conviction that there is a German U-boat just offshore, and a spy somewhere amongst their small-town community. Cadence's story focuses more on her dream of going to New York and entering the literary industry, fully supported by the summer beach ladies who all have ties to someone in the publishing world, but having to keep the family together first.

I found many instances where I had to suspend my own theories of disbelief. And the ending wasn't a perfect Hallmark ending, but pretty darn close. At times the story line felt disjointed and others felt rushed. It just wasn't always smooth. But that doesn't mean it wasn't a good story.

The overarching premise was a young woman, Mari, who flies across country on the pretense of having a private art lesson with a famous artist, Mrs. D. We hear from each of them at the beginning of the book and again at the end and maybe just once in between. When I got to their middle of the book chapters, I had honestly forgotten who they were. Which is fine because the story of the Smith sisters was the main focus.

All in all, a nice little read. Not too long at 301 pages. Not overly complex so I would put it in the category of a beach read. Would selectively recommend.

Book Review #4 - The Final Problem

noreply@blogger.com (Deanne) — Fri, 19 Dec 2025 19:56:00 +0000

I received this advance copy of The Final Problem from NetGalley with the expectation by them that I would provide my honest review.

What a delightful story! An aging actor known for his portrayal of Sherlock Holmes finds himself the center of a real-life mystery while stranded by a storm on a Greek island.

With elements of Agatha Christie's And Then There Were None sprinkled throughout the setting, Ormond Basil finds himself reprising his role as Sherlock Holmes, with a fellow strandee crime fiction author serving as Watson, to solve not one but two locked room murders, with third murder tossed in for good measure. The cast consisted of twelve - the hotel proprietress and three staff members; Mr. Basil; two female traveling companions; a German couple; Mr. Basil's television producer friend and his opera diva companion; and the crime fiction author Mr. Foxa.

A massive storm preventing the authorities from being able to reach the island after the first death, the group looks to Mr. Basil to determine what had happened. Knowing he is, as he continually reminds the group, only an actor, he tries to retreat into the background but his life's work of embodying the great detective has given him a certain overlay, art imitating life, and they all look to his "expertise" to answer the questions.

As other deaths occur, Mr. Basil is forced into the position of having to solve the crimes, which he ultimately does. And even though I marked every clue, I was still wrong in my determination of the murderer and was surprised by the ending.

Each scene is set with references to certain real Sherlock Holmes mysteries, and the dialogue between the characters is often filled with quotes from the books. Books I wish to check into now to round out my knowledge.

Overall, an excellent short book, highly enjoyable with a "can't put it down" quality to it, and a 4-star review from me.

Book Review #3 - The Keeper of Lost Art

noreply@blogger.com (Deanne) — Fri, 21 Feb 2025 18:39:00 +0000

I received this advance copy of The Keeper of Lost Art from NetGalley with the expectation by them that I would provide my honest review.

I loved this book! I am truly a fan of historical fiction, and I enjoy stories that present a side not usually explored. In this case, Italian art masterpieces moved from the Uffizi and other museums to protect them from the invading German armies in World War II. But of course, that also presented dangers to the protectors of the art. That is the crux of the story - the lives lived with the most precious of cultural treasurers hidden under their roof and the most dangerous of enemies all around.

The story is beautifully told, with incredibly rich descriptions. With some books, it seems the authors will empty their thesauruses out trying to find yet another descriptive turn of phrase for something. This author made it seem effortless. I could see in my mind's eye the olive groves, the cypresses, the fields of red poppies, the rooms of the villa, and the view from the villa's tower. All extremely well done.

The author did a very nice job leading into each chapter with quotes from Botticelli, as the creator of the art, and Captain Foster as the ultimate officer in charge of returning the works to Florence. The feelings of one as the producer and the other as the recipient. I enjoyed reading those statements that mirrored each other hundreds of years apart.

The story revolves around Stella, a young girl at the start whose mother sends her from their home in an Italian city to live in the country with her mother's brother and wife and their children. Believing she'd be safer there. There are undercurrents at the home that take Stella a while to understand, but she ultimately does. The aunt that seems to not want her there at first ends up being her best mentor and role model, and protector. While there, Stella befriends Sandro, a boy just older than her that, for all intents and purposes, believes himself to be orphaned. His brothers are fighting in the war, and he has no one else to care for him. He arrives at the villa with many other refugees seeking shelter in the large wine cellar. Stella and Sandro teach each other when school is stopped for the fighting - Stella helps Sandro with his reading and Sandro helps Stella learn to draw. Sandro is one of the few people that is allowed to see the Treasure Room, as Stella calls it, and he wastes no time mimicking the great works.

My only critique of the story that isn't positive is that I felt a little editing could have been done in the middle. I guess like in war, there was a repetition to the days and the middle section felt a little repetitive as well, without advancing the story much.

The ending was bittersweet, in several of the storylines, but they felt true to the story. It was a telling of real life, not a fairy tale, so we didn't get the fairy tale ending that I'm sure some readers would expect.

Overall, a really enjoyable story and I highly recommend it to those who enjoy this genre.

What a Difference a Week Makes...

noreply@blogger.com (Deanne) — Fri, 06 Dec 2024 23:32:00 +0000

Last Friday, right about this time, I was sitting on the couch in our family room, feet up, watching television. I spied Dani standing in doorway. Using her best ninja moves, she did what she always does - skirts the walls all the way around the room until she gets to my side of the couch.

And I did what I always do - hang my left arm over the side of the couch and stroke her back, rub her ears, and scratch at the base of her tail.

Then, I looked at my watch. 4:58 pm. And my only thought was "what a difference a week makes."

At that time on the previous Friday, I had been sitting in a vet's office waiting room. Hard chairs. Cold. Waiting for Dani's doctor.

I didn't know at the time that I was mere moments away from her surgeon coming out and telling me that yes, in fact, her surgery was going to be on the most complex end of the spectrum. And that because of that, we were looking at probably a 60/40 chance of having a favorable outcome. Of course, I reminded myself, not having the surgery would result in a 100% unfavorable outcome. They were explaining that there was a large tumor, but the location was the issue. It was very close to the vena cava and other major organs and even the smallest slip could have dire consequences.

All I could see really of the doctors that were dressed out for surgery were two sets of eyes looking at me between their caps and their masks. Eyes with concern, no question. Waiting on me, on my decision. I'd already told them before they even started that if they got in there and it was too much or too risky to just close her up and I'd take her home the next day and she could live out the rest of her days, however long that was, with us, but here they were asking me. That must mean they felt like they could do this, right?

What did I want to do?

I looked at the surgeon. Had he done this kind of surgery before with this level of complexity? Yes. Did he feel confident that he could do it in this case? Yes. I looked at our vet who was there to observe and, presumably assist if needed, and I asked him - if Dani was your dog would you let him do the surgery knowing what you do? "Without hesitation" was his reply.

Then let's do it.

Another hour goes by. I have books with me to read but all I can do is play mindless games on my iPad. Nothing that would require thought. All my thoughts were in the operating room, laying on a table, abdomen splayed open.

And then I see the doctors heading my way and the pure relief was visible in their eyes, even from a distance. And their eyes were all I could see. The surgeon was so excited and talking so fast that our vet had to slow him down so he could explain everything in "Deanne terms" - meaning very basic.

I know I won't get all the medical jargon correct but what it all amounted to was a very large tumor on her right kidney and that one of them (or both, maybe) had bisected itself and the tumor and kidney were enclosed in one solid sac and - drumroll please! - they were able to remove 95% of it! That's the reason I don't remember anything else they said is because they told me they removed 95% of that horrible thing!

The relief I felt at that moment is still indescribable. For the last hour I had mentally prepared myself for the news that of the 60/40 chance, the 40 had won. Or that it was actually going to be too hard for them to do and I'd be taking Dani home the following day with no changes. Or worse changes, if that was even possible. So, to see the joy on the doctors' faces just overwhelmed me.

I was texting Billy and my mom and sister just as fast as I could. I knew they were riding the rollercoaster with me as I'd been updating them all evening and I just wanted to get them whatever information I could.

At little after 7 pm they told me I could see her. Dani was in a warming kennel, bundled up, but she raised her head when I walked in. (Billy says I misinterpreted her look but I'm really pretty certain she was not happy with me at that moment - major side-eye/stink eye even still under the effects of the anesthesia...) I listened to the instructions, and I asked my questions. Yes, a technician would be there all night. Yes, Dani could come home on Saturday. No, she wouldn't have diet restrictions, just to stay quiet for a week or so while she healed. And so on.

Then they asked if I had any further questions. I looked at the surgeon, square in the eyes though I could see his whole face now, and I told him I had one more and I hoped it wouldn't come across as inappropriate - would it be okay if I hugged him?

And then the tears leaked out.

And then I hugged all the doctors in the room. Heck, I might have even hugged a janitor, I don't know. My relief and joy were palpable.

I was able to leave and bring Dani home the following day, forgiven by her - eventually - for putting her through it all. She did try to make one Great Escape as we were leaving but a nice lady jogger slowed down long enough to act like she wanted to pet Dani and when Dani stopped, and I scooped her up and got her into the car.

Since then, we've gotten the pathology reports and are devising a plan for Dani. In true "Tanksley" fashion, she has not one but two cancers - they had formed what is called a collision tumor. It was a grade 2 and very aggressive, but there is no evidence of any metastasizing. The doctor did a visual while she was open on the spleen, liver, etc. and we've since had a chest x-ray and her lungs are clear. But we still need to kill the remaining 5% so that there isn't a chance for anything to spread. Because the cancer impacted her kidneys and the urethra, the only real concern at this point would be her bladder. We've met with an oncology veterinarian, and she is devising Dani's treatment plan. Dani needs to be 2 weeks post-surgery before anything could start, and that just so happens to be today.

My Christmas wish has been fulfilled. There is really nothing else I could want. I have a happy, HEALTHY, pup again. We are starting to see her personality coming back as she feels better. Still not running around with the rest of the Herd or anything but wanting to lay outside or come in the family room with us or eating in the kitchen and not just be resting in her bed. She's healing.

What a difference a week makes.

Book Review #2 - The Cemetery Spot

noreply@blogger.com (Deanne) — Thu, 26 Sep 2024 15:15:00 +0000

The Things We Do For Love

I received this advance copy of The Cemetery Spot from NetGalley with the expectation by them that I would provide my honest review.

The underlying theme of the book is that family relationships can be complicated and that sometimes we will do anything for those we love. Whether or not they deserve it.

To me, most of the characters didn’t deserve the grace they were being given. For me to enjoy a story, I need to be invested in the characters themselves, first and foremost. I could not generate any enthusiasm for August (Auggie) or April (Ape). As an older sister myself, I found the storyline of the sisters when they were younger to be abhorrent. August put her younger sister into a horrible situation, from which then she then needed to save her. Instead of being furious with August, April then spends her subsequent years feeling indebted to August, ultimately helping with August’s own family situation. Poor decision-making abounded.

The book was promoted a bit like a mystery, but the answer was fairly obvious early in the book. I was not surprised by the reveal surrounding the central theme of the story. Also, the Frieda McFadden-esque “twist” at the end completely fell flat for me. Again, because the characters involved meant nothing to me. It felt like that extra bit was thrown in because of the success of Ms. McFadden’s (who was listed in the acknowledgements as a contributor) own books and the hope that it would be successful here, but it just wasn’t to me.

Overall, not a story I enjoyed, nor would I recommend it.

Book Review #1 - The Damages

noreply@blogger.com (Deanne) — Sun, 25 Aug 2024 16:41:00 +0000

I am trying something new. (Some of you getting this email out of the blue after 4 years will probably be surprised, and this may not be your thing. Just skip over it.) I have discovered a world where folks like me get advance copies of books and are asked to give reviews. As a part of that, the reviews need to be public and published places where they will be seen. I just finished my first of three books that I have received, and I wish my first one had been better. Until I can figure out how to categorize these in a different manner, they will just be on my main feed for now.

The Damages (Marian Warner #2)

Shelley Costa

My rating: 2 of 5 stars

I received this advance copy of The Damages from NetGalley with the expectation by them that I would provide my honest review.

I did not love this book.

Initially, the author's writing style was hard to follow. There were punctuation errors, or it was -missing completely. Phrases that didn't read well. And later there were even places where the person changed. The sentence read "Marian threw up my hands." It should have been Marian threw up her hands based on the narrator's point-of-view. The book just felt like it hadn't been adequately proofed and edited.

But I tried to move past all that and just focus on the story itself. It wasn't a bad story, but it was incomplete, in my opinion. This is the second book with common characters. I will be honest and say I didn't read the first one before starting this one. Maybe that would have helped. But The Damages was not listed as a sequel, just the second in a series. Series books should be able to stand, somewhat, on their own. A little more background filler to help develop the characters in this book would have been helpful. The author obviously assumed that the first book would have been read because there were vague references to "that time in January" and such, but not enough for me to understand the true relationships between some of the characters. And without that background, I just didn't find myself really invested in them. And because I wasn't invested in them, I didn't really care.

My next issue was with the wrap-up of the story itself. A successful mystery will leave appropriate clues for the reader to find, without giving away the ending. I have yet to understand how Marian solved this case based on what was presented. The story jumped around and that left gaps and then suddenly she's got it all worked out and calling the Sheriff. The final chapter made absolutely no sense. Absolutely superfluous. The two characters involved had only been given a brief interaction earlier in the book, but it was made known they were close. Just not as close as became obvious at the end.

In all, I found it disjointed and not an easy read. It shouldn't take 20 days to read 200 pages, but it was just not that interesting and I wasn't compelled to keep reading. I read most of it on a 3-hour flight because there was nothing else to do.

https://www.goodreads.com/review/list/9154491-deanne-tanksley

Keeping the Faith

noreply@blogger.com (Deanne) — Wed, 03 Jun 2020 16:28:00 +0000

Years ago I discovered Gotham Writers online. They had a physical presence in New York City but also offered online classes that I could take anytime. You had homework assignments to write and turn in for critiques and feedback. At that time in my life I had a little more time so I took a few classes here and there, but those dropped off as I found myself with more responsibilities at work and in my community and a generally busier life.

But I stayed on the mailing list and still receive the periodic newsletter with their events and offerings. One of which recently was an online workshop, over Zoom like so many things today. The workshop was one hour and 15 minutes, just a smidge over my lunch hour this past Friday, so I signed up.

The point of the workshop was the leader would give us a word prompt and we would have 15 minutes to write whatever came to mind, and then those who wanted to could share.

Our first prompt was Keeping the Faith. Some people managed to write entire sections of short stories in that time while I could only manage a few sentences. Others wrote more "feelings", like I was doing, but got more out of themselves. I was too busy trying to define which Faith I was trying to "keep" - in myself, in my fellow man, or in my God (which, side note, was never in question, it was just a matter of which path I was going to take for the assignment.)

The ones that shared, not me to Billy's great surprise, talked a lot about the living through the pandemic and really had some beautiful words and alliterations for how their lives had felt in the last few months - looking through windows and comparing the virus to cement that had been dumped on their worlds to keep them in place.

Of course, on last Friday, the virus was still all anyone had to talk about when the thought of keeping the faith was a topic.

It was before the country was set ablaze by rioting and looting. It was before innocent police officers were killed in the line of duty and hardworking people saw their entire livelihoods get wiped out and destroyed.

It was before.

Some of the thoughts I'm sharing below feel as if they need some kind of "qualifier". These are only What-Ifs, not what I'm saying is true or trying to detract from what is, just wonderings.

All the rioting these last few days is coming from a tragic event last Monday. On the evening of Memorial Day, a man was detained after using a counterfeit bill in a store. From what I have read, the passing of the fake $20 was unintentional and the man was being compliant with the officer to a point, even waiting on the officers to arrive when the store owner confronted him with the fake bill. He did resist when being placed into the police car and slipped down to the ground. I have not watched the video of what all happened in the next almost 9 minutes but I do know from what I have seen that the officer detained the man on the ground by using his knee on the man's neck, possibly aggressively at times, but certainly in an unsafe manner, and the man died as a result. The officer continued to hold him down with his knee even after the man stopped moving and asking him to please let him up. From the witness accounts, again I have not watched the video myself, the man never tried to be aggressive with the officer or fight him, he was just asking for the officer to move his knee and release the pressure on his neck. Three other officers were present on the scene but apparently took no actions to stop the officer or assist the man on the ground.

A man died after passing a bad $20 bill from an officer that was too aggressive in his manner of detention.

That sentence alone, as written, should horrify most folks. It did me.

That is the way the story should have been presented in the media. But it wasn't. Notice that nowhere in that retelling did I ever mention the race of the officer or the man. Ever. For us to be feel outrage or anger or sympathy or even skepticism, the race of the participants was not important. The facts alone were enough.

Yet the media immediately put out the story that is was a white racist cop killing a black man.

Maybe the cop was just a jerk. Did the media ever even think of that?

You know, one of those bad officers - and there are some just as there are bad priests, bad teachers, bad accountants, bad everything - who gets drunk on the power of his position instead of respecting the badge he wears. You can be a jerk against another human being without being a racist.

Race didn't have to be brought in to the story to make it a tragedy, it already was.

So the already tenuous pot of race relations in the United States was stirred again.

I have read that, allegedly, the officer had anywhere from 10 to 18 prior complaints against him for behavioral issues. We know his wife, a Laotian, filed for divorce just a few days after his arrest. Maybe it was a "last straw" kind of event for her, maybe she'd seen more in their years together and knew he was capable of this kind of act. Maybe he shouldn't have been out there on the streets anyway? Were these prior complaints all white persons so it didn't get reported, or was it just because no one died that it wasn't deemed newsworthy?

I will stick my neck out right now and say that incidents occur between black officers and black persons and white officers and white persons, some even ending in death, that we never hear about. I will go so far as to say that if the officer had been black the man on the ground white with the same result we would have never had heard about it. The media wouldn't find that "provocative" enough.

No, instead, they threw out the racist tag and what has happened since has been heartbreaking.

The media placed a target on every police officer in this country, most of them good, honest, hardworking, brave men and women who put their lives on the line with every shift for all the rest of us. They have blood on their hands, too, in all of this.

In the first few days after the incident there were peaceful protests. People wanted to see justice for George Floyd. Rightfully so. The officer was arrested and charged with third degree murder in a matter of days, an act that could have taken weeks or months but with the video evidence only took hours. The protest might have happened anyway, but I still think a lot of them were the result of the media continually spouting out the phrase "racist cop". And in the last four or five nights the peaceful protests, while still present, have also given way to rioting and looting across the country. Big towns and small ones. Storefronts smashed. Inventories raided. I have watched cases of liquor being loaded into cars; big screen televisions being carried off; high end clothing stores being emptied. The justification is that the businesses all have insurance so let some else pay for it.

Problem is, not all of them do. Lifetimes of work have been destroyed. Jobs lost, possibly forever if the businesses don't reopen. These actions have nothing to do the peaceful protests or the incident itself. These rioters are just opportunistic criminals trying to grab whatever they can. They do nothing to honor the man for whom they are supposedly speaking out.

But even worse, I have seen police officers be injured, shot, beat up, killed, and a retired captain died on the street in St. Louis and we could all see it on Facebook.

All because of one jackass.

Well, one jackass and an overzealous media that couldn't wait to create this maelstrom.

I don't know if Officer Chauvin is a racist. I don't think anyone has actually asked him. I do know he exhibited very poor judgement in his final act as an officer and he will pay for that lapse for the rest of his life. I know others have already paid with their lives because of his actions, and I hope he has to live with that knowledge as well.

I pray for the families of the officers killed and injured in the riots. That should never have happened.

As of now, I don't know where the national story will end. It may end with military force if the violence on the streets doesn't quell soon. Or maybe once all the stores are looted and there is nothing else to steal the rioters will all go home and we will only be left with the peaceful protesters. Only time will tell.

But I do know the pain for the Floyd and Chauvin families will be ongoing. There will be a funeral, and a trial. There will be loss for both. My prayers continue to go out to them as well.

30

noreply@blogger.com (Deanne) — Mon, 05 Aug 2019 19:55:00 +0000

You know, when you're a child, anyone with an age of double digits you think of as "old" but, for some reason, someone who is thirty just seems to be ancient! It's like that is the highest age your little mind can even comprehend. Even when you are in your twenties there is something about the thought of turning thirty that just seems to make some dread that birthday and fear it making them feel "old". Some people feel at thirty that all their best years are behind them.

Thirty is just a number with which you just don't want to associate.

Except today.

Today, I woke up celebrating the fact that I married my best friend 30 years ago.

I met Billy in March 1988. And while I cannot usually tell you what I had for dinner last night, or will forget a plot point on a show we just watched last week, or even what day it is sometimes without a calendar, I can still remember exactly what I was wearing the day I met him - pink shorts and my favorite sleeveless pullover sweater with pink and baby blue argyles. I can close my eyes and still see my surroundings of the moment I first saw him leaving the softball field in Conway in his red Camaro. I can relate to you verbatim our first conversation. I was sitting on the bleachers at the softball field, waiting on the next game to start. I had brought my cross-stitching with me as I had actually very little interest in the games and was only really there to be nice to one of the players on the team. As I was sitting there Billy walked over and used my needlework as his opening line "what are you knitting?" My response, "it isn't knitting, this is cross-stitch, and it's a sampler, see?" showing him the pattern. "I do know how to knit, though, but this isn't it."

(Billy gets very frustrated with me because I have a tendency to correct him, a lot in his opinion. I remind him that I have been doing that, literally, since he met me so it shouldn't be a surprise, but I will promise to try harder not to do it.)

The thing is, when I met Billy I had no idea I was meeting my Forever. At the point where my life was on that March

day, I had no intention of even looking for a Forever for a long time. I was newly detached from a long-time relationship, about to graduate from college, and had a job in the audit department of an international accounting firm waiting on me to start July 1.

Rome, Italy - 20 year anniversary

Life was good and I saw no need to make any changes.

But, even though I didn't know I was meeting my Forever, the Diviner of the Master Plan certainly did and He made sure all those details stayed in my brain, whether I knew why they were there or not.

It didn't take long, though, for me to realize what I had. Billy had known from the start. He told me before our first official date that he was going to marry me someday. Again, given where I was in my life at that point my first thought was "stalker" and I tried to point out that he didn't even really know me. He might not like me so much once he did.

Okay, he was right and I was wrong. He surreptitiously had me looking at engagement rings in August 1988, engaged on December 21, 1988, and then planning an April wedding. Busy season in that international accounting firm kyboshed that idea. I took a calendar and found a date halfway between our birthdays - August 5 - as the replacement date.

Summer days in Arkansas are generally no picnic, and that August 5 of 1989 was no exception. It was hot! Mom went early to the church and them turn down the air conditioning as low at it would go (one of several trips to the church that morning!) but we were still sweating through the whole thing in our full formalwear. My "something old" was the handkerchief my Naunie carried at her wedding and I used it the whole time to try and help with that. Billy is not much into the Pomp and Circumstance of events and that day he started asking from the altar if we could leave yet. Ceremony wasn't even finished but he'd had enough of the fishbowl and was ready to go. I think he mostly just wanted to change out of that tux into some comfortable clothes.

That still hasn't changed.

That day was full of good memories. The phone in my apartment rang just as Mom and Dad and I were walking out to head to the church and it was Sears, wanting to know if I wanted to extend the warranty on my washer and dryer. I stood there listening to the lady on the on end of the line, Mom and Dad looking at me like I was crazy and then I stopped her and asked if she could call back in a week because I was just leaving to go get married! As we were getting ready at the church Daddy walked into the bride's room and told me Billy had no socks to wear but he thought I would know where some were for him? - they were in my purse. I had realized when Billy brought his two garbage bags full of all his clothes that he had forgotten to leave some out for the wedding. We took picture after picture and that chapel length train came in handy because the only way I could really be seen in any of the pictures with Billy in them was to stand one stair up behind him. They swirled the train in front of me so it wasn't quite as obvious.

Thirty years is a long time. Over the years we have shared love and supported each other through losses. We have moved several times - different houses, different states - and endured a major home remodel where we did the bulk of the work ourselves. We have changed jobs and been self-employed at the same time, working for each other. We have created our family by bringing in dogs that needed a home and cried together when they left us, but always finding room for just one more.

We have built our Forever, together.

Funny thing, neither of us feel old enough to have been married for thirty years.

Walt Disney World - 5th anniversary

(Billy used to tell me he didn't even think he'd live to see thirty so imagine his surprise in 1994 when he made it.) Sometimes we still feel like those young kids that wanted to go to Six Flags over Texas for a weekend vacation, or travel to watch the Razorbacks on away weekends. Up and able and ready to do anything! A few years ago, though, we went to a concert in Lafayette, LA on a Thursday night and drove home afterward because I needed to be at work on that Friday and as Billy stood in front of the open fridge, trying to get something to put together for my breakfast, he said "we're too old for this".

We have enjoyed the good times and worked through those that weren't. We are always striving to balance the seesaw, knowing that sometimes your job is to hold the other one up, and sometimes it is you that needs to be held.

But for all the ups and downs there is no one that I would rather do this Life with. No one. He is my rock, my biggest fan and

cheerleader, my Everything, and I try to do the same for him. He is the reason I want to wake up every day - just to see what that day might bring to us.

Both sets of my grandparents celebrated over 50 years of marriage. I see as we get older that reaching 50 years together is as much luck as it is anything else. The first step is that you have to get old enough to be together 50 years and that is often out of your control, but I'm certainly pushing for it! I thank the Lord each night for giving us what He has so far, and hoping every day for just one more.

So, here's to another 30, baby! I love you more than Life! Thank you for knowing what you wanted all those years ago, and waiting on me to figure it out.

Costa Rica - 25 anniversary

Frankie

noreply@blogger.com (Deanne) — Wed, 24 Jul 2019 15:15:00 +0000

One day in mid-January 2004 I was at work and my cell phone rang. We have a policy of not using our phones at work, particularly out at a client, but since I knew I Billy was returning to Natchez from Arkansas that day I glanced at it anyway, just to make sure he wasn't calling with car trouble or changes to his schedule. And yes, it was him calling. I answered it up because he never calls work unless there is something he really needs.

From the time I answered I could hear in his voice he was "shook", to use one of my dad's terms. He was apologizing and saying he no other choice; he knew it was a bad time of year for me but he just had to do it.

I was getting nervous.

You see, he had picked up a puppy.

As he was coming through Lake Providence, Louisiana, right at the town's edge at the railroad tracks, he saw what looked like a dead animal in the road. Since we don't hit an animal in the road, living or dead, he pulled the van into the left lane to go around, and then he saw it.

She wasn't dead, but instead dragging herself by her front paws trying to get out of the road.

He pulled over immediately and ran back to help her. She had been hit by a car, obviously, but there was not car in sight. The driver hadn't stopped. He could see a couple of bigger dogs with two or three little pups following them that looked just like her running across a field. Her family, probably. There was also a store in a little pink building, a fish market maybe?, and he said there were several people standing around in front of it. Not a one of them had even taken a step in her direction to try and help her. No one waved a hand at him as he was driving to get his attention to make sure he didn't hit her.

They just stood there.

I can still hear his words in my head. "I had two choices, honey. I could either pick her up and bring her to you or I could go over there and beat the BLEEP out of them for just standing there." I told him he chose wisely and we would do what we could. And I asked if he thought she could make the still two-plus hour drive to Natchez. He thought so. She was bloody but that mostly looked like it was from her paws where she was dragging herself on the asphalt.

I called our local vet and got one of the last appointments that day, finished my work and went home to change out of my work clothes and to see after the two we had at the time, Christy and Midnight, and then waited on Billy to get there. When he did I headed straight out to the van, not even giving him time to get out.

What I saw was a dog unlike anything I'd ever seen before. She was gray with black dots on part of her body but her face was kind of white and tan and her tail was bushy but not a ringtail like Christy had. I didn't know what she was.

Dr. Gregg looked her over, took x-rays, and told us her pelvis was fractured but there didn't appear to be any internal damage to her organs. He gave us three options. First, because she was just a stray that we were not invested in (he didn't really know us that well back then - we get invested from the moment we see them) he could euthanize her; second, if we were invested in her he could do surgery to repair the fractures; or three, because she was so young that her bones had not fully hardened yet and we could try to keep her crated and quiet and see if they would heal on their own. If they didn't heal properly then we could do surgery later.

We voted for option three. (It is wasn't long after that when I explained our philosophy that going forward he should not offer us any options that he would not want his pediatrician to recommend to him for his children i.e. euthanasia)

As we talked to Dr. Gregg I asked what she was and he said she looked like a pure Catahoula Cur, also known as a Catahoula Leopard Dog, and the State Dog for Louisiana. He asked us what we were going to name her since we were obviously going to keep her and I asked for a few suggestions. He said he knew a lot of Catahoulas named Merle since that is what their coloring is called. I decided, though, to focus on those beautiful blue eyes of hers and named her Frankie, after one of my favorites, Old Blue Eyes himself, Frank Sinatra.

We had never crated a dog before but I had large one that I had used when Christy and Stormy were in obedience training. (I had to have a place to keep one while working with the other since their classes were back-to-back.) I thought it would do so we brought it out and dusted it off and tried to get her settled in her new home. It wasn't too hard at first. The crate was a good size and she couldn't move a lot anyway so she got used to being in there to eat and sleep. Taking her outside, though, was another story. There is a lot more room in the front and side of our house than in the back so I would carry her out front whenever Billy let the other two at back. Of course the challenge was how to support her back half so she could do what she needed and that was when I came up with old pantyhose. I could slide the legs around her and use those to hold her up. Since they stretched, I didn't have to walk all leaned over. And it worked well. She loved her freedom from the crate and would try to cover as much ground as she could on those two front legs! I remember thinking one morning as I had crazy bed hair and my bathrobe was flying as I tried to keep up with her that the Natchez Garden District was going to wonder who they had allowed to move in downtown and escort us back to the Mississippi River Bridge! As her bones healed and her mobility increased keeping her in the crate all day got harder and harder. She could see Christy and Midnight having the run of the house and she got to where she wanted it, too. Now, at this point Christy was thirteen and a half years old and Midnight was probably eight-ish so there wasn't a lot of running around the house, more like just hanging out all day.

Eventually, we were convinced that she was healed and it didn't take long before the crate was folded back up and stored away. Even if she wasn't completely healed, we weren't getting her to stay in the crate so she basically forced our hand. It seemed like every day when I came home from work you could see she had grown from that very morning. She was healthy and happy and showed no signs she'd ever had a problem with her legs.

One of my fondest memories was not long after we let her of the crate to be one of the Girls. Our house is a Victorian and from the front door you are looking down the center hallway all the way to the back door - straight shot. It also has original hardwood floors. One day I came home from work and Frankie popped her head out of the kitchen at the back of the house when she heard the door and came running at me up that hallway. She realized too late, though, that she needed to stop and all of the sudden all four feet went out from under her and all four legs were splayed out! Eyes wide! And she slid to stop just inches away. And she jumped up and ran all over, so excited to see me! I realized in that moment just how much I had missed that. Of course Christy and Midnight missed me during the day and were happy to see me come home, but Christy was going deaf and sometimes didn't realize I was there until she saw me. And Midnight was never our most social soul. She preferred to stay under the stairs or in a closet. That is where she felt the most comfortable. Their expressions of "happy you're home, Mom!' were a bit more subdued.

But that pure, unadulterated joy on Frankie's face was something to behold. She was glad to see me and letting me know it! She made my heart smile!

Those first few months were trying for our Girls. Frankie wanted to play and Christy and Midnight did not. Their days of running and chasing balls and such were behind them. One Saturday morning I was in the kitchen and the three Girls were out in the backyard. Frankie came bursting through the door with a smile as wide as all of Montana spread across her face and blood running down one side of it. We scooped her up and headed straight for Dr. Gregg's office. He cleaned her up and looked her over and then smiled a bit at us. "You see that little mark on her ear? I'd bet you anything that is a little Pomeranian nip."

Yep. Christy had let her know in no uncertain terms that she didn't care how cute Frankie was or how happy her running around made Mom and Dad feel, she, Christy, was still the Queen Bee and Frankie needed to understand that and get used to it.

Not long after that we had Frankie out on walk, trying to burn through some energy, I'm sure, and when we got back I saw something sticking out from underneath one of Frankie's back paws. It just looked like a leaf to me so I start tugging on it to get it off and she snatched and foot and started limping to get away. Once again, it was off to Dr. Gregg's office. I learned something that day - dogs can slip their pads on their paws, and she had done it. (Never had a dog before or since that has ever done that, and we have raised, to date, 14.) So we took her home and Billy carried her up the stairs and placed her on the bed. She milked that hurt paw for weeks! Billy would carry her down for breakfast and to go out and then carry her back up again.

October 2004 saw the addition of Patches (about 4 months old) to our family and March 2005 added Maggie (around 7 months old.) Frankie could not have been happier to have playmates! So yes, we added three puppies in about a year's time but that was good. The Three Amigos, as called them, loved each other and played together and, for the most part, ignored Christy and Midnight which was fine with them.

Christy left us in October 2005 and left the leadership reins to Frankie. Again, Midnight didn't really have much to do with anyone so she was fine with it.

Frankie saw the additions of Scooter and Sadie in 2007, Riley in 2008, Doozer in 2010, Gabby in 2012, Micky in 2015, and Spencer in 2017. (Hence the new phrase the Tanksley Thundering Herd) Frankie welcomed them all, and usually let them know very quickly that she was the Queen Bee now and they needed to understand their place. With her, though, no nipping, only warning barks. She took great pleasure in letting everyone else finish their meals and then eating hers right in front of them, barking every few bites to tell them to back off, there would be no leftovers.

As much as she loved everyone, sometimes you could just tell she wished she had had the chance to be an only child.

Frankie left us July 13, 2019. She was reunited with her other Amigos (Patches left in 2015 and Maggie in 2017). She once again saw Christy and Midnight and Riley and Scooter, whom she had lived with, as well as Stormy and Molly that were part of the Girls before Frankie came along.

She was blessed to just pass of old age. She had had a couple of fatty tumors that she carried around for over ten years. She had worked through kidney disease where sometimes she would only eat if Billy or I handfed her. But after almost sixteen years her little body just gave out.

She held court over her "subjects" from the center of our king-sized bed and, later when she could no longer jump up that high, from a couch in our bedroom.

She was Riley's buddy and would stay with him in the bedroom so he wouldn't be alone while everyone else was out running around. She could de-squeak any dog toy in no time flat and typically never disturbed the stuffing in the process. Even the toughest line of toys were no match for her.

She was our sweetheart, our Princess.

We both still look for her on her bed in the bedroom every time we walk in. I keep looking for her Phantom-of-the-Opera masked face to peek around a corner. We are struggling to stop at five when we take our headcount each night. Those last few days were all about her. She had grown very finicky in the last few months and what she would eat one day she wouldn't the next. We would cook hamburgers, hot dogs, smoked sausages and she might take a bite and then come stare in my eyes like she was starving, begging to be fed, for a bite of my string cheese. We would get excited that a hamburger had worked one day and then dejected the next would should wouldn't even sniff one. We even got to the point where we went the cat food route because I had always heard that the stinkier the better if you're trying to get them to eat. We bought Ensure and baby food and I fed her with a syringe. You know in your heart of hearts that you are reaching the end, but I kept wanting to feed her just in case. Maybe her tummy was just upset and she'd start eating tomorrow? I woke up once on that last Thursday night and saw Billy sleeping on the floor next to her. On Friday night, I did the same. We had tried to get her to go out Friday afternoon, me supporting her back half with a robe belt - similar to how I had all those years ago - but she wasn't walking well at that point. Saturday morning I stayed on the floor next to her. We had the room dark and cool. And we waited. It's a tough thing, waiting on a loved one to pass. I watched her breathe. I stroked her side and whispered in her ear that it was okay to go. I promised her that I would take care of her daddy, and he would take care of everyone else. And we waited. All of our other Herd members were laying around the room and were totally silent and still.

At 10:10 that Saturday morning she breathed her last. I kept thinking that maybe I was feeling a faint heartbeat, but it was only my own pulse from pressing so hard, wanting so desperately to be wrong.

She was gone.

Like the others, she has been cremated. Billy picked her up this past Friday and brought her home and handed her to me. Just like he had over 15 years ago. Only this time instead of being wrapped in towels she was covered with purple paper and tucked into a small treasure chest. Fitting for one that brought so many riches and such joy into our lives.

We love you, Frankie Girl! And we miss you. Fly high and free.

A Book Review

noreply@blogger.com (Deanne) — Sun, 07 Jul 2019 20:45:00 +0000

My mom recommended this book to me a year or so ago. It is unusual for Mom to do this so when she did, I bought the book and put it in my stack of To Reads.

I finished it last night and wanted to bring it to your attention.

Everyone remembers where they were on September 11, 2001. That is one of my generation's defining moments. Most of us spent the day in front of televisions or the Internet watching the replays of the Towers and Pentagon being hit and the Towers subsequently falling. We remember the images of President George W. Bush being interrupted as he was reading to a group of school children in Florida. You could see his face change as an aide whispered in his ear what was happening, him processing and deciding how to handle this. We saw survivors making their way down Manhattan streets choked with smoke and ash; first responders trying to lead them to safety as their brothers in arms ran into the burning buildings.

We cried.

United States airspace was almost immediately closed to all traffic. All planes in the air had to land at the closest viable airport. For 38 planes on their way from various European locations Gander, Newfoundland was that spot.

In all honesty, I had never really thought about the planes that were on their way but not yet in US airspace. But for the folks of Gander, it was a very big deal.

The population of Gander at the time was less than 10,000 and those 38 transatlantic jets brought in 7,000 more folks. Folks for which there was no room.

This book is small, only about 250 pages, but it is filled with stories of what Gander and a few other surrounding towns did for these "Plane People", as they called them. Shelters sprung up in churches and lodges and schools. Locals took people into their homes to allow them to shower or find a quiet, peaceful place to rest a bit. Volunteers set up phone banks and food banks. Stores opened their doors to whatever the folks needed (the passengers, when they finally were able to deplane - late that Tuesday night or sometime on Wednesday - could only have whatever luggage they carried on with them, no checked bags.) Pharmacies began trying to find needed medications and gathering toiletries and such from their stocks. A vet and vet techs volunteered to care for the animals aboard the planes at no cost to any of the passengers (Canadian regulations prohibited the animals leaving the airport).

As you go through the pages, you see such a glimmer of humanity that is so very hard to find these days. No, not a glimmer but a shining beacon. A beacon that I wish we could see more often.

It was 126 hours from the first plane landing until the last plane left on the Sunday after the tragedy and during that time "families" were formed. Lasting friendships. Amid such devastation came such caring for strangers.

It isn't the only story I know where homes and businesses were open to those in need. Billy and I were on vacation when Hurricane Katrina hit the Mississippi Gulf Coast and New Orleans. As people evacuated, and more so after the storm and there were no longer places for them to live, Natchez, a town of less than 18,000, became a haven much like Gander. Shelters sprung up in churches and lodges. Friends and coworkers of mine opened their homes to those needing a place to sleep. The Red Cross showed up with basic supplies for the displaced. Radio stations held drives for toiletries to make hygiene bags for those in the shelters. So, while I wasn't there for the initial influx of folks, I saw the aftermath of good people helping others every single day.

Maybe it is just how small towns react to adversity.

Unlike Gander, many of the people that came to Natchez stayed for a while. They had lost their homes and businesses and had no real reason to return. They gave back to the community that had taken them in by opening new retail stores, restaurants, or doctor's offices. Katrina had given them a fresh start. Everyone that had been detoured in Gander left, but many of them returned the kindnesses they had been shown. Some passengers were involved with a charitable foundation and donated grant monies for the school district to purchase new computer equipment and donations to local charities and churches. The passengers of one plane passed the hat as they were finally able to leave and continue their journey to Atlanta and collected over $15,000.

At a time when the world was facing pure Evil, unsure of the who, what or why, Gander showed that there was a place that Evil had not yet reached.

Reading it made my heart smile.

(Now, if you look at the Amazon reviews you will see a several that kind of bash on the author a bit. They could dissuade you from trying the book. True, I also found typos and questionable uses of grammar but to focus on that is to truly miss the message of the book. Did the author need a better proofer, absolutely, but that shouldn't factor into the decision to check it out.)

Life Is Like a Lasagna

noreply@blogger.com (Deanne) — Sun, 26 May 2019 22:09:00 +0000

With all due respect to Forrest Gump's mama, who isn't wrong by the way - sometimes life is like a box of chocolates - it occurred to me not long ago that Life is like a lasagna.

Layered. Complex. Simple. Flavorful.

Satisfying.

Billy and I enjoy a good lasagna. We tag team the building of it - I get sauce and noodles and he layers on the cheeses. He has to lift it into the oven due to the sheer heft of it. We wait until the sauce is bubbly and the cheese browning on top and then dig in with anxious forks; ready to be filled until we are stuffed.

But what makes a "good" lasagna?

First, there are the basic decisions - do you want it layered or a rolled up version? How many layers? White sauce or red? Meat or vegetarian? What kinds of cheeses? Family sized or single serving? In other words, what do you want it to look like when you're through?

Next, how much time do you have to invest in the preparation - do you have time to boil and drain the noodles or is this a time for the oven ready variety? Jarred sauce or homemade? Are you a Martha Stewart devotee and want to even make your own noodles and grow your own tomatoes and fresh herbs for the sauce? (I learned in culinary arts school that there are varying degrees of "homemade".) What are you willing to do? You'll only get out of it what you'll put into it.

Then, it needs to be planned out - how many noodles do you have? How much sauce is ready and available? Do you have all the various cheeses? How about one egg to make the ricotta cheese mixture? There is nothing worse than having a ton of sauce and few noodles, or misjudging the sauce and putting too much on one layer and not having enough to cover the top and the noodles get burnt and crispy, or not being able to spread the ricotta cheese so it ends up in clumps in just a few bites instead of being evenly distributed. What do you need to do to bring your expectations and vision to fruition?

And do you have time to cook it? A good lasagna can take 45 minutes-ish just to cook after you get it all together. Have you started in time? Some things cannot just be popped into a microwave and done.

Now, I know none of this are earth-shattering and a lasagna might not have been the best example, but if you think about it in terms of your Life Plan you might see the similarities.

First, what do you want out of Life? A family, a career, both? Do you want to go to college or the military or straight into the workforce? Do you have any idea of what you want your life to look like?

You do? Great! Then how much are you willing to devote to get there? If you want to go to college are you making the grades in high school? Putting school work ahead of fun stuff when needed? Prioritizing the things that need to be? Want to specialize? Are you getting the right foundation? Are you tailoring your current daily events to get you where you hope to end, no matter how far out that goal? Are you putting in the time now to get what you want then?

Do you have a plan to achieve your goals? Is it a family? Sometimes Mr. or Mrs. Right will show up on your doorstep but more often than not you need to position yourself to meet them - at church, at work, through friends. Be open and responsive. If work is your most immediate concern what are you doing to separate yourself from the rest of the world? Are you doing things to improve your skills, whatever they are? Are you thinking on your own about what you might need, taking the initiative, instead of waiting for someone to tell you?

Is there time? Waiting until your senior year of high school to worry about your grades may not get you into college you want. Showing up for work at 8:05 every morning and leaving at 4:55 for years will most likely get you passed over for the promotion you've had your eye on. If you want to be a boss someday act like it from your first day at work - not to say you should be an overconfident, overbearing "young whippersnapper know-it-all" but be the person watching and absorbing and learning from those that have been there longer, positioning yourself appropriately to someday fill their shoes and sit at their desks.

But of course, in both cases, sometimes you just have to be flexible. Assess what you have and adapt as needed. Life, like prepping a lasagna, can't always be rigid. Think outside the box sometimes; try something new. Maybe you have oven-ready noodles but all the time and ingredients for a homemade sauce, or maybe you want to use up that eggplant you found at the Farmer's Market and layering in that in will be perfect, or this may be the time that trying a lasagna without ricotta cheese. Sometimes you do with what you have.

True story - growing up I didn't like ricotta cheese. Or, at least I thought didn't. I had never tried it and I had a "habit" of immediately declaring I didn't like something just based on what I thought, saw, smelled - rarely ever trying it anyway, just to be sure. (Side note - I am getting better at this, not great probably, but better.) When we first married, Billy liked his lasagnas fully loaded, including onions in his sauce which I still dislike, and thick ricotta cheese on each layer, and mine were always noodles, meat sauce, and mozzarella cheese only. So I always made two, and I made them both myself. Mine was small and thin compared to his but we were both getting what we wanted. It wasn't always efficient to make two as work demands grew and, over time, I tried to branch out a bit and discovered ricotta cheese wasn't horrible and we started compromising - I would only make one lasagna and he had to give up the onions cooked in the sauce but I would sauté some in a pan separately and add them to the layers on one end and put just a thinner layer of ricotta cheese on the opposite end for me to eat. Meeting in the middle, so to speak.

We did it this way for a long time.

Since, in general, ricotta cheese doesn't fall into our "staples" category - only buying it when we knew for sure we were going to use it before the expiration date - but lasagna falls into the so oft-repeated meal category so that we always had a box of noodles on hand, over time Billy started eating the lasagna "my" way. Just noodles, meat sauce, and mozzarella cheese. Lots and lots and lots of mozzarella cheese! This combination proved to be an easy meal that either of could make at the end of the day, depending on our schedules, and it satisfied us both.

Or, as I said before, a task that we could tackle together and make fun.

Life, and lasagna, are both the products of the choices we make. What we have versus what we want, and how to get what we want - the necessary ingredients to have our best life. And, like I said before, either can be complex or simple; flavorful or very basic; rich; satisfying; it all depends on how you make it. It can start one way and end another, depending on what you discover you like, and don't. It can be heavy and huge, or just light enough for one. It is all up to you.

And while I love the rich sauce and gooey cheese and noodles thick enough to hold all of it, no matter what you put in it, sometimes the best part of a lasagna is just who you share it with.

It's Just a Day

noreply@blogger.com (Deanne) — Thu, 14 Feb 2019 08:00:00 +0000

This posts falls into the category of "I had a thought, I wrote, and then I forgot to publish it." I thought I had though. A friend on Facebook (and in real life, we just haven't seen each other since high school, probably) expressed a sentiment recently similar to what I had said here, and I knew I had a post about it so I went to find it and do a repeat performance. Only I found it in the Draft folder and not the Posted folder. In rereading it, I realized it didn't need much to be finished. I originally wrote it several years ago so a few of the references are dated, but still valid.

Hope you enjoy it.

Valentine's Day is but once a year, right?

Depends. Yes, according to the Julian Calendar. No, according to me.

I started to write this post last year when I heard many of my Facebook friends, and some others that I could actually see and touch, lamenting how terrible it was that their husband/boyfriend/significant other hadn't done anything for them for Valentine's Day. No flowers, no candy, no cards. Nothing.

Whenever these conversations start I hesitate to jump in.

I can count on one hand, pretty much, the number of gifts Billy has gone out and purchased for a specific event.

My engagement ring was a Christmas present, that was 1988. Christy, my first baby, was my first Christmas present that year we were married (1989). Christmas 1991 saw a few presents because we had both used all our accrued vacation time to move to Kansas City and couldn't go to Arkansas for the holiday. I remember he bought me a set of purple glass Corning cookware. I can't recall one birthday or anniversary gift - ever. 1989 or 1990 was probably the last time I got anything for Valentine's Day either. I do remember getting flowers and a teddy bear one year when I worked at Ernst in Little Rock, but not sure if was the engaged year or the married year.

Yet, I want for nothing.

Yesterday, a package came for Billy, that he ordered, and in it were 6 bottles of bubble bath for me, just because he knows I like to take bubble baths.

Newest iPhone, also coming to me. All I said was that a friend had one and I thought they were interesting. He went to AT&T and picked one out and is having it shipped.

Anything I show him in a magazine - cool purple running shoes, new exercise clothes, fun gadgets - his first words are always "get you some!" and if I don't, he will. He has come back from Arkansas many a time with a bag of goodies for me.

He just knows me, and what I like.

Who's up every morning, asking what time we're leaving to walk? Yep. Have a race to run, he's right there. Up early, tending to the animals so I can gather my stuff and then waiting at the finish line with a big grin across his face. (Almost a big as the one across my face). The only one he's not sure he can attend is when I do a half Ironman distance triathlon, but only because it will take me all day to do it. We're still working on that one.

So, if someone asks what I got for this occasion or that reason, I don't have the answer they are looking for.

Nothing, because I didn't need it.
Nothing, because I already have it all.

You see, I married a giver, just not a "gift-giver".

And that is how I believe it should be.

It means so much more to me to know that he listens, and cares, and does whatever he can to make my life easier. His schedule is more flexible so he goes to the grocery store for us; he does laundry and housework. After those morning walks he comes back and fixes my breakfast and coffee to go while I am getting dressed for work. Lunch is on the table every day, waiting for me. And dinner is always in the works when I get home.

These gifts are way sweeter than an box of chocolates and last much longer than a bouquet of roses. Daily reminders of how he feels about me, unsolicited, and free from the pressure of getting the perfect gift for that one day that the World that says you are supposed to have one.

See, in our house February 14 is just another day on the calendar - same as February 13 and February 15. Or May 18, August 5, December 25, October 19, and on and on.

Life Without Epilepsy

noreply@blogger.com (Deanne) — Thu, 06 Dec 2018 18:34:00 +0000

For almost exactly nine years, we lived with epilepsy. For just over the last year, we have lived without it.

At first, you go through all the standard stages of grief – denial (Riley cannot really be gone), anger (why did he have to live with epilepsy in the first place, why couldn’t he just be like all the other dogs?), bargaining (bring him back and I’ll do anything; bring him back without epilepsy and I’ll really do anything you want), depression (what will we do without that face) and acceptance (I can’t believe he’s gone, but I know he is).

But then, a different kind of reality sets in, and a type of guilt you’ve not dealt with before.

For almost 283,824,000 seconds our lives revolved around Riley. Literally, and figuratively. Trips to the grocery store were planned around his medicine schedule. Nights out or trips alone were only scheduled when one of our competent sitters was available. One night, we went to a concert and Riley slept in the car the whole time. We bought webcams to watch him. We did nothing – not work, not play, not anything without considering Riley and his needs.

And then Riley was gone. Just like that. In literally an instant. One final breath. Just one of those 283,824,000 seconds.

It takes a day, or two. Maybe a few. And you realize one day that the medicine alarm didn’t go off, and you didn’t even realize it. Years of having multiple alarms go off multiple times a day and now, none. You are walking around Walmart and look at your watch and momentarily panic, and then realize it doesn’t matter. Riley’s 2pm pills aren’t necessary. You see a advertisement for a local festival and really want to go but it will probably last after 10:30 pm. And, again, you realize it doesn’t matter. You’re free to go, if you want,

So you go. You keep shopping at Walmart. You book that client meeting for 2 pm. You register for that triathlon out of town. You run a little further in the morning before work.

You go to bed at 9:30 at night and sleep straight through until 6:30 in the morning.

And you feel guilty.

This isnt’ right! I can’t do this! Riley needs me!

But he doesn’t anymore.

He is over the Rainbow Bridge, where no epilepsy monster can touch him. No seizures, no ataxia from his meds, no blindness. No issues whatsoever.

Like learning to live with epilepsy, you learn to live without it. It should be easy since you grew up, went to college, got married and started working all without it. But learning to live without epilepsy takes almost as much as learning to live with it.

It is a shift, again.

Adding epilepsy to your daily routine makes you feel like you’ve “done something”. You have altered your life for a precious creature’s greater good. Eliminating that element from your day makes you just like everyone else – working for a living, taking care of your family, and so on.

And that is not bad by any stretch of the imagination, it is just a new normal. You are back to the person you were before epilepsy entered your life. A wife, husband, mother, father, sibling, employee, employer, neighbor. You are just you.

And you realize one day that it is okay. “You” is not such a bad person to be.

But you still feel guilty.

Some days more than others.

They say that to know love you have to have had loss. I don’t know if I agree with that or not. I think to know love you only have to look the eyes of dog. One who’s former family has failed him. One that has been sick all night and is curled up in a ball next to you. One who hasn’t had a good meal in a while and can’t stop wagging his tail as you give him food.

One who has slept all night in the first time for a long time, safe under your care.

We are not the first family to go through this, won’t be the last. But I want to put it out there that it is okay. That first morning you sleep all night because you didn’t have to listen for every sound from your warrior, its okay. That first day you come home from work and realize for the first time you worked all day, its okay. The first time you just plan something you really want to do, and then do it, its okay.

Our warriors never leave us, not really. They are still in everything we do, but just not the deciding factor in everything we do.

We can live and love, and learn to do so guilt free.

Life cycles

noreply@blogger.com (Deanne) — Sun, 07 Oct 2018 02:47:00 +0000

You are born, you live, you die.

You are a child. You become a parent. Your parents become childlike.

Your parents loved, nurtured, and protected you in your youth. You love, nurture, and protect your parents in their age.

Your children grow to become parents.

And it continues.

Life, cycles.

The Three Rs

noreply@blogger.com (Deanne) — Tue, 11 Sep 2018 00:52:00 +0000

Republican, Racist, Redneck.

I was called all three last week, all because of one very small Twitter post. Fox & Friends posted the new Nike Just Do It campaign ad, and asked for thoughts. As you may know, it featured Colin Kaepernick with the slogan “Believe in Something. Even if it Means Sacrificing Everything”.

In 140 characters, or less, I managed to set off a string of likes, retweets, and really nasty responses. All I said was “So glad I switched to New Balance, I would have hated to have to burn all my running shoes. Bad call @Nike!”

One of my detractors came in with a long bit ending with the line “stick with prez bonespurs - a true american - DRAFT DODGER!” Atypically for me, I engaged this person and asked where, anywhere, in my comments did I mention the President, or support for the President, or anything that would link me to the President. Here, some folks jumped in and quickly devolved whole discussion into a political mess with conversations of the military service of the last four or five presidents. Really not relevant. Another one, staying with the Republican theme here, just flat out offended me by saying he doubted that me or most people even knew about Colin Kaepernick before the President made it a political football. I just responded to him with the link to my blogpost (https://deanne-randomthoughts.blogspot.com/2016/09/when-should-equals-must-but-can-does.html) that was originally published in September 2016 where I discussed this topic. One month after the initial incident.

Then some others jumped on the bandwagon and that was when the racists comments started. Again, I asked where in my comments I had ever mentioned Mr. Kaepernick’s race. I was told I brought race into it when I was offended that Colin Kaepernick kneeled during the anthem but not when Tim Tebow did it, therefore I was a racist. What did Tim Tebow have to with this? How does this person labeling me a racist know what I did or did not do with this alleged kneeling by Tim Tebow (who, by the way, kneels in prayer all the time on the sidelines of a game and any picture from the internet can be pulled to “support” this theory that he kneeled in disrespect.). I asked them why it was not possible for me to disagree with Mr. Kaepernick’s message itself, and not the messenger? Which is what I was doing. Silence. And today there was another one that called me a “simp” and told me that if Colin Kaepernick was protesting something like animal abuse, I would be standing right there beside him. So I thanked him for making my point for me, because he was right. If Mr. Kaepernick was protesting animal abuse I would be right beside him protesting as well because that was a message I could agree with, so surely this tweeter could see my point – protesting the message and not the messenger himself. (But I still would never do it by kneeling during the National Anthem, ever.)

Although the tweeter meant it as a slam.

And the third one was this:

Maybe I am misinterpreting it, but I think “redneck” was the message behind the photos.

And several more questioned the sanity of burning your perfectly good, purchased with good money shoes, just for effect.

So, how about a reminder of what started this brouhaha to start with. The following is quoted from an interview posted on CNN’s website:

"I am not going to stand up to show pride in a flag for a country that oppresses black people and people of color," Kaepernick, then 28, told NFL.com's Steve Wyche, the man who broke the story.
"To me, this is bigger than football, and it would be selfish on my part to look the other way.
"There are bodies in the street and people getting paid leave and getting away with murder."

I have nothing but the utmost respect for law enforcement. And that is why I have a problem with his statement. And with him wearing pig socks (cartoon pigs wearing police caps). His comments were aimed at a profession, not a person. Are there bad police officers, sure. There are also bad CPAs, teachers, doctors, clergy, football players, investment bankers, you name a profession and you can find one. (And, before the haters jump in and tell me “death” is not a result of one of these other professions being bad I respectfully disagree – errors in health can result death, financial ruin has caused people to take their own lives, and so forth.)

His comments came at a time when there were several conflicts with young black men and police officers. There was rioting in Missouri and in Maryland when the police officers were found to not be guilty of murder but instead justified in their actions. It became open season on police officers, black and white. And folks like Mr. Kaepernick weren’t doing anything to help matters. Again, he had the right to disagree, to protest, to make his voice heard but there is a time and a place and a manner to do so. He chose none of the right ones.

He became a polarizing figure.

Now, back to the ad.

Believe in something. Even if means sacrificing everything.

As one of my Facebook friends (thank you, Jean Gay) pointed out, perhaps former Arizona Cardinal Pat Tillman would have been a better choice – giving up a football career to join the military after September 11, 2001, and ultimately dying in Afghanistan. How about that as a face of believing in something to sacrifice everything?

What, exactly, did Mr. Kaepernick sacrifice? He was already riding the pine in the NFL. I know I hadn’t heard of him before all this so he wasn’t a huge shining star in the sport.

I know that Nike executives didn’t lose any sleep over the fact that I won’t buy any more shoes or workout wear from them. MAC Cosmetics didn’t shutter their door when I emailed them I would no longer buy their products after they chose Miley Cyrus as one of their faces. They responded they were sorry but there was no way they could have found a representative that would make everyone happy. Now, for me, giving up MAC cosmetics was a much big problem, but I did it. I haven’t thrown out what I had, no, but I’ve not bought anything since then either.

I know I’ve asked before but why do these conversations always seem to be reduced to name calling? I made no references to anyone, and I never responded by calling anyone anything – not a liberal or a Democrat or noted the color of anyone’s skin. No one knows how I voted in the last election. No one knows how I feel about the President because I’ve never said it. Why can I not disagree with someone who happens to be a different gender/race/political affiliation without it making me one, or more in this case, of the Three Rs?

Why can’t we just say our peace and then agree to disagree?

Who Was Weak?

noreply@blogger.com (Deanne) — Fri, 03 Aug 2018 14:50:00 +0000

Last week I was stuck in an airport. Apparently I have a face that says “talk to me!”as I was approached by a woman as I was looking for a plug for my charger so I could start looking for hotel rooms and alternate flights.

I have a cart full with five suitcases. I have been at the airport since 3:35AM. I had maybe five hours of sleep and I have only had one large Dunkin Donuts coffee. I am tired and frustrated.

All I wanted at that moment was to be left alone. All she wanted was to talk.

It didn’t take long to surmise she was homeless, but had found a safe place to stay. She said she was from Egypt, but lived in the US now. She was at the airport, waiting for her brother. One brother had been killed by two youth on the West Bank of New Orleans, but this brother was due in any day. She waited, day after day, for him to arrive.

I couldn’t tell her that she was waiting in the ticketing area; arrivals would be downstairs.

She went on to tell me about all her education and degrees, including sports medicine, anatomy, and biology, and all the places in the world she had studied. I think she listed off two or three Masters Degrees.

Eventually, she got around to asking about my family, and if Billy and I had children.

I cannot tell you how many times in 29 years I have been asked if we have children. True, it is a normal, logical, question to ask someone. Especially someone you are just trying to get to know. (Although it is not a question that I usually ask someone because I know how the other side might feel.) And that would be fine, if the questions stopped there.

I answer her question, politely, “no”, and then try to move the subject on to me leaving. I really have to go.

While I have no place to go and all day to get there, I am ready to move on. And she has completely ignored all the signs I have given that I am ready for the conversation to be over and I am just trying to not be rude at this point.

But she doesn’t stop. She keeps asking about why we don't have children. Most people don’t. They take "no" as the answer and go in another direction. I have related in these blogs one time that a woman kept asking me about having children, in front of my nephews. My sweet Clay, only three or four years old at the time, piped up that I didn’t need children because I had them (Hayden, Clay and Brett). And my heart was so happy at that moment. Enough said (from the mouths of babes).

Unfortunately, Clay was not here on this day to ride in and save the day. It was up to me. And I am just too freaking nice. I briefly answered her questions, one word answers wherever possible, all the while pulling my plugs and packing up my phone and making sure all my stuff was in order. But this lady couldn’t see all that and take the hint. She just keeps on.

Finally she asked a question that I had never heard before, of course, no one had ever pushed me this far before, either. Her question was “who was weak?”

Who was weak?

Wow.

In other words, whose fault was it?

Like we'd done something wrong.

To her credit, the lady finally apologized for pushing me, I'm guessing it was the look on my face that finally turned on her lightbulb. She said it was her background in anatomy that was raising her curiosity, and so on, but that question still got me to a brink I had never reached previously.

Still unable to just walk away and leave her standing, for whatever reason, perhaps for no other reason than I was just so caught off guard that someone would ask that question, in that way especially, I answered her that I was.

I thought it would be the fast answer, and I know my own history with “weaknesses” in this system. As I told her, it has never really worked right.

Truth be told, it could be both of us, either of us, or neither of us. We never needed to know so we never found out.

And we will never know for sure.

I am a believer in the Divine Plan. Not all of us are destined to be parents. Our “talents” lie elsewhere. Aunts. Uncles. Animal rescuers. Community volunteers. Foster parents. Caregivers.

We have the love for caring, it is just in other areas.

If we had been meant to be parents, we would have been parents. I believe that.

Just because we never had two-legged children, only four-legged, doesn’t mean that I never thought about it; never wished I had had a baby of my own to hold as I would pass back a friend or family’s newborn child; never talked about baby names (there would never be a Billy, Jr., Jr. I was told. And that is a family joke, we know he would have been a III had we gone that route); never wondered what it would be like.

I wasn't devoid of that feeling of wanting one.

I just hid it better, I guess.

And, I guess, because I am a believer in the Divine Plan I was content with living Life que sera sera - what will be, will be.

I didn't obsess over having a child. I didn't ache to have one. In the want vs. need discussion, it was a "want" not a "need". I know for many women that ache is very physical and very real. For me it was more of "nice if it happens".

I know some people see this situation, and some have even said, you put your career first. I don't think that's fair, either. I've never had burning desires to be the corporate CEO/CFO or managing partner of an international firm. But I do have a pretty darn good work ethic and I have always done what my employers asked of me - travel, long hours, weekends. Some of that, I am certain, contributed to the lack of children in our home. These people I worked for were paying me good money to do a job, and I did it, without questioning or complaining (much). I felt like I owed them my best. The choice to have a career was made before I had a husband and I have always known that Billy respects my work and the way I work and just accepted that part of my personality. It has never been an issue.

I hope, though, that I can be viewed as a person who made the very best of the circumstances in which she found herself. That I can be a role model for other young women for whom motherhood is not a part of their personal puzzle. To show that it is okay to not be a mom, that we still have much to contribute. We aren't less than, we are equal to. And we don't have to be the devil in high heels to be successful in our chosen fields.

We can still love, nurture, care for another creature or human being, just differently. Wake up on the floor holding your dog that has been seizing all night, or, better yet, wake up to find your husband on the floor holding your dog that has been seizing all night so you could sleep because you had work, and tell me that that act is not "maternal".

I know those of you reading this would never ask questions the way this woman did (side note, she had no children because she had never been married - couldn't find a good man), and I do, deep down, feel like she had some medical curiosity that was fueling this, but sometimes it is just the simple question "do you have children?" that actually starts the ball rolling for the person you are asking. The anxiety starts up (what else will they want to know), the worry (does this change the way this person will look at me going forward?), the self-doubt (is there something wrong with me? should I feel differently?). And once that spiral starts, sometimes it takes a while to pull ourselves up and get back on the path with our heads up and chins out, facing the day again.

For the most part, we can handle it. Just make sure we are fully rested, fully caffeinated, and not overly grouchy before you ask.

Timing is everything.

Tidal Waves

noreply@blogger.com (Deanne) — Fri, 13 Jul 2018 01:14:00 +0000

We were watching an episode of “The Closer” the other day. No, it’s not my favorite show and I think Kyra Sedgwick’s Georgia accent is more than a little thick, but it’s an easy watch and not too tough to follow. (Side note, this show totally went downhill when it became “Major Crimes” after Kyra left – totally unwatchable.). In this particular episode, a young man, befriended by Deputy Chief Brenda Lee Johnson’s niece (who is staying with Brenda and husband FBI agent Fritz Howard for a few weeks) dies of gunshot wounds. Wrong place, wrong time.

The niece in the show reminds me so much of my own niece, not only in appearance but in actions. Brett would totally be the young lady sitting next to a new friend, trying to make him feel better. The victim is drugged up on morphine for his injuries and everyone is waiting for his mother to arrive from Honolulu, even though the doctor has said he will never survive the three hours it will take for her to fly in. Ultimately, the victim is conscious for just minutes and mistakes Chief Johnson for his mom and, rather than correct him, she tells him she loves him and he was no trouble to raise and all the things he needs to hear to pass peacefully.

And I have huge tears rolling down my face. I haven’t had enough sleep or coffee, or both, and the tears are starting.

Deputy Chief Johnson steps out of the room after the young man dies and Lieutenant Provenza is standing there, waiting. He is a member of her team. As he tells someone he calls, it is 4:14 am, and he is there, dressed - in slacks, a sweater vest and a sports coat. And as Deputy Chief Johnson is trying to control her emotions he offers her his clean, white handkerchief. Just in case she needs it.

And I lose it.

Billy looks at me, somewhat quizzically, and says “you know it is only a TV show, right?” (Side note 2 – I have come a long way in this. My mom and sister used to cry at Kleenex commercials or “Little House on the Prairie” and I would have zero emotion. Now, I feel.)

Yes, I do.

But what Billy doesn’t know is that my daddy always had a clean, white, handkerchief. He was always dressed if he was out of the house, even if it was the middle of the night or early in the morning. He was always there, if you needed him to be.

At that moment, Lieutenant Provenza was my daddy and I was hit with a tidal wave of emotions.

You’d think, after so many years, that you have everything compartmentalized and smothered deep and something as simple as a plain, white, handkerchief would not reduce you to a blubbering mess.

But it does.

And you can’t stop it.

All you can do is let it wash over you and then carry itself back out into the ocean of memories that you keep at a distance.

Billy has learned that this happens, sometimes. I can be standing in the kitchen, crying, because the grill bought back a memory or the thought of using BBQ sauce reminded me of his homemade sauce or any number of things that can hit when I least expect it.

But, like surviving in the ocean itself, you can’t fight the wave. Your best bet is to let it wash over you, and then swim counter to it. Not against it, that will never work. But across it. Let it hit you, but not take you under.

Working to survive it, but not to fight it.

Because in the end, the survival is what makes us what we are. And my daddy is very proud of who I am. Losing him changed me, in so many ways. But they would be good, positive, changes.

So I swim. Against the wave. Fighting the crest. Not allowing myself to go under. But welcoming the sweet tears on my face that remind me that I loved, I lost, I feel, I survived, I thrive.

I don’t drown.

The “Freedom” of Speech

noreply@blogger.com (Deanne) — Wed, 06 Jun 2018 02:33:00 +0000

This country was founded on, among other freedoms, the freedom of speech. The ability to say you didn’t like the ruler (aka King George) and not have to worry about losing your head, literally. Or to disagree with the local law enforcement without the fear of being arrested.

In other words, to speak your mind without fear of reprisal.

Except, in today’s electronic, totally connected, world, do you really have this freedom?

The news is full of stories of celebrities, and regular folks, who say something “controversial”, only to discover that they lose their jobs/shows/position.

My family believes in voting. We voted every single time there was an election. Billy has always been interested in politics. Election night was right up there with Bowl Day for him. When we married, we were on different ends of the political spectrum, which made things very interesting, to say the least. When we moved to Natchez, a much smaller community than we had ever lived in, our political freedoms were tested on a new level.

Never, ever, had we been “sign” people. Even growing up, we almost never put signs in our yard (probably because they would mess up Daddy’s grass), that I can remember. Our political views were strong, but they were contained within 908 E 57th Place. Billy and I never put up signs. Probably a waste of space since we would cancel each other out. But when we moved to Natchez I was told, muddily but still clearly, that because of my firm’s position in the community, publicly supporting one candidate over another in local elections was discouraged. We audited or worked with many local governments – municipalities, counties, school districts, special districts – and if we supported the winning candidate then our continued work would be looked upon like a “favor” and impair our independence; to support the losing candidate would almost certainly cost us the work.

A lose-lose, if you will.

One local election, this caused some problems in our household. Billy wanted to support a particular candidate, and had even told him (without my knowledge) that he could put a sign in our yard. I came home from work that day with a different opinion. It caused a quite a rift when I told Billy I didn’t want to do that. It might have gone over better had I not given him the “why” – because my boss said not to.

As there were three candidates in the race, I couldn’t even acquiesce with a sign for the opposition and pretend that no one would know whom I supported.

So, did I have Freedom of Speech? Sure. That is guaranteed by the Constitution. Would it have been smart to exercise that right, probably not. Could I have been fired from my job for doing so, no.

Which circles me around to this question – in today’s world of Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat, and so on, where is the line between work and personal?

I posed this question, in a way, during the NFL protests. Many people believed the football players had a right to take a knee during the anthem in protest and it was fine. It was their freedom of speech to express themselves this way. Others took the stand that they were not protesting on their personal time but during work and that was not fine. Work is work, personal life is personal life.

Employers do have a right to set behavior standards, same as they do dress codes or other policy and procedures or even morality clauses in contracts. You accept the work on those terms and know it going in. We recently had a situation where we had to remind our staff that their work email address is simply for that – work related communications. To use it to share inappropriate jokes or political opinions or make personal comments to someone is not allowed. Some even go so far as to say to do so is a “theft of company resources”. When you send an email with our domain on it, it infers we, as as firm, are supporting whatever you have said.

But we are all connected, all the time, every day. When I open my iPad and go to the email icon all 5 email accounts I have are right there is one place. It would be easy to inadvertently use the work email instead of a personal one. It is up to me to pay attention to what I’m doing. If I post something on Facebook, even though it is my personal page, I am cognizant of the fact that everyone in Natchez knows where I work and that I am a business owner in the community and I try to stay middle of the road, publicaly. Just like growing up, my views on everything do not need to be broadcast to the entire world. They can stay contained in the four walls of our home.

I raise these questions in light of the cancellation of Roseanne Barr’s rebooted show, “Roseanne”. Top of the ratings, doing well with the audiences. Then she uses her personal Twitter account and puts out an inappropriate tweet (no one can really dispute that point) and her show is cancelled. She was fired from her job (along with her castmates) for something she did in her personal life.

Is that right?

She wasn’t using corporate resources. It didn’t happen on the set. It was, technically, no different then if I tweeted out something from my house on my personal computer. So, if I had sent that tweet should I be fired? Most people would just say it was a stupid thing to do, and my partner would be very upset with me, but I don’t think he would, or even could, terminate our agreement over it.

But we would both fear that the local community would find out and it could cost us business that way, which could ultimately lead to a change in my work status. And that is how I think it should be.

If enough people were outraged by Roseanne’s comments then they would stop watching the show and ABC would have cancelled it anyway and the end result probably would have been the same, but the process would have been different.

Other shows, even shows on ABC, have had their stars make controversial comments and they were neither fired nor their shows cancelled. And in one case, the offending comments were made on air, during the show. Work life, not personal.

Is that right?

No football players were fired for kneeling, no teams were moved to other cities, no one was even disciplined, really, for expressing their views. But someone else loses a job, and costs others their jobs on the show, just for making one stupid comment.

We live in a world with a lot of multiple standards.

And the lines are blurred in this digital age. Are we ever “off” work? Do we have a separate personal life at all? Does what we do in one aspect of our lives always affect the other aspects?

I don’t know.

I know one solution is to “unplug”. I have several very good friends that don’t post, tweet, like, love, favorite, or anything else. Their digital footprint is minimal.

But I would miss so many of the people that I have caught up with over the years. I am in touch with distant family and it makes me feel the right kind of “connected”.

In some ways, Life was easier when I was growing up, before the digital age. But that is the topic of the next blog post.

I think what I find the most troubling in all of this is the lack of clarity or consistency in what is wrong or right. Offend Christians, nothing happens. Offend Muslims or another religion or even an Atheist, you’re vilified. Offend working class Americans, nothing happens. Offend illegal immigrants, you’re a racist and an elitist.

How is that right?

We all have the same Freedom of Speech. We all have the right to exercise it or not. But we do not all bear the same repercussions when we do say something that someone else doesn’t like.

So, is speech really free? Does it not sometimes come at a price?

I know the easy answer is let’s just all try to get along and quit with all the snapping and sniping and ugliness. If no one ever made these inappropriate “jokes” or comments (that they all apologize for after the fact) or took a knee or burned a flag or any of these behaviors then we would not be having this conversation.

It doesn’t mean you aren’t free to say it or do it, but maybe you can think of a better way to get your point across.

Think before you speak, post, tweet, snap, like, or hit send on that email.

I also know we don’t live in a kumbaya world and that will never happen.

But a girl can dream, can’t she?

Another freedom that really isn’t free.

The Labelmaker

noreply@blogger.com (Deanne) — Sun, 15 Oct 2017 22:18:00 +0000

This was my Daddy's.

I can remember him meticulously typing out the labels with one of those old labelmakers. It was a device with a flat disc on the top with all the letters and some characters. You had to line up the letters, squeeze the trigger mechanism, and the tape would stamp your letter and then advance to the next spot. You had to be careful with it because if you misaligned a letter and made a mistake, you had to start over. You didn't want to hit the "s" instead of "r" at the end of screwdriver, that's for sure.

I don't think it is any accident that miscellaneous was abbreviated "misc", in other words. Why take a chance?

Today's labelmakers are all electronic and if you make a mistake you simply hit the backspace button, correct it, and move on. No wasted tape, time or effort. Technology has made labeling things quite easy. No white-out necessary.

The purpose, of course, of a labelmaker is to help you organize; to group and categorize and quickly identify certain like objects; to be able to name and later spot what you are looking for easily and efficiently. I have metal bins that I bought from Martha Stewart that say Cake Decorating and Cookie Decorating and inside are gel food colorings, colored sugars, pastry bags, nonpareils, all sorts of things you need to make cookies and cakes "pretty". At work we label files, office supplies, phone extensions, and the like. All so we can easily grab what we need to get a job done.

Naturally, the first think you need to do is to identify what you are trying to label. What am I working with? How do I need to group it? What belongs together and what can be "miscellaneous"? How do I see common themes in things to be able to label them? Daddy had to think about what he had, and what he wanted, and organize the two.

What I find today, in our society, though, are different types of labelmakers. We, the people, have become those who label.

During the last presidential campaign those that didn't back Hillary Clinton were labeled "deplorables" and those that followed Donald Trump were "sexist" and "misogynists".

The people in North Carolina and others that oppose the removal of historic statues are labeled "racists".

I've even heard the folks in Las Vegas that were killed by a gun-wielding madman labeled as "rednecks" simply because they liked country music.

Oppose gender-neutral bathrooms or same sex marriages? You are "homophobic".

Seems as if we can no longer have an honest discussion with differing opinions before the labelmakers come out.

Why is that? Why can I not just say I don't want my beautiful 19 year old niece having to walk into a restroom that a man older than her father can also walk into, and use, just because he feels like a female? Why does that make me a bad person? How is it that I can say history should be preserved for all to see - the triumphs and the failures alike (remember, the South lost that war so maybe the statues should be seen as a reminder of what happens if you go against the Union; or the Native Americans lost those battles but died for a cause they believed in, and so on) and suddenly be viewed as if I had grown an extra head.

Those that forget (or erase) their history are doomed to repeat it.

Here's the other part that makes me so sad about this. In the 1860s a war was fought to remove a label - slave. In the 1960s people took a stand so that anyone could sit anywhere on a bus or in a theatre or wherever they wanted and remove a label - colored. In the 1920s and again in the 1970s women stood together to remove their gender as a label and earned the right to vote, to equal pay, for gender neutrality in the workforce.

And here we go, adding new labels.

Judging by the media and social media you would think that everyone that voted for Donald Trump on a Tuesday in November woke the following day a "racist". Did some racists wake up on that Wednesday? Sure, the ones that went to bed that way the night before, and the night before that, and the night before that one.

And not all of them voted for Donald Trump.

I know people of differing genders, sexual preferences, races, and religions. I know both Democrats and Republicans. I see people every day in various economic statuses. I know those that love opera or classic rock. I know lovers of Jackson Pollack, Andy Warhol, Rembrandt, Da Vinci and paint by numbers.

You know what I call them? All of them?

Friend.

Not "deviant" or "pervert" or "snob" or use a racial slur or "redneck" or "racist", or anything else.

Just friend.

They are my family, neighbors, coworkers, clients, mentors, and inspirations.

They are simply my friends.

Even though I fall into several categories above, I don't feel like any of those labels are befitting, although redneck may be kind of close... I hope that if there is ever the need to label me it will be something like loving, loyal, faithful, funny, Christian, helpful, trusted.

And friend.

The Squeaky Wheels

noreply@blogger.com (Deanne) — Sun, 08 Oct 2017 15:08:00 +0000

We all know the adage of the squeaky wheel getting the grease. The more noise something makes the faster we grab that can of WD-40 and give it a squirt. And everyone is happy again.

In our house, wheels are pups and squeaking equates to demands and needs.

Riley is, by far, the "squeakiest". His epilepsy demands schedules and planning. Our lives revolve around his meds times. We are constantly on alert for warning signs, weather changes, UPS delivery schedules during the holidays as his meds are shipped to us, anything new in canine epilepsy research, and just anything, in general, that might look "off" about him because even the most benign health issue could contribute to a seizure.

And, in reality, Riley is the quietest one in the bunch. He makes a low noise in his throat when he needs a hug but otherwise you'll not hear a peep from him until meal time. And even then it is not a traditional sounding bark but more of an "ra roo".

Frankie is probably next. She is a Queen Bee and the very definition of a diva. At least in canine terms. She can work the smallest of ills and turn it into major drama. We should have known, though. That January day in 2004 when Billy was driving through Lake Providence and realized that "thing" in the road was in fact alive and dragging herself, her sweet broken 9 week old self, out of the road by her two front feet, refusing to just lay in there and accept death as her fate, she was starting the rest of her life as a pampered princess. I used pantyhose to hold up her back half when she needed to go out as her pelvis was fractured. But she healed. One time we took her on a walk and I thought she had leaves stuck on her paws and tried to pull them off. In fact she had slipped her pads (I didn't even know that could be done!) and her feet were killing her. Billy carried her up and down the stairs for weeks as she recouped in the center of our king-sized bed. She milked it, for sure. Earlier this year she decided to stop eating. The vet said she was showing early signs of kidney disease but with some diet changes we might be able to reverse it. Tough to make diet changes when she wouldn't eat. What she didn't know was our desire get her to eat was way stronger than her decision to not to and that I wouldn't stop at anything, including hand feeding one bite at a time, until she started eating again.

Today, she is once again leading the choir at meal time. Demanding, loudly, that her bowl be placed on the couch next to her so she can effortlessly dine.

Micky is the youngest, and the biggest, and the most rambunctious. He is demanding just in his sheer size and puppy-like goofiness. He wants his walk, and will stare at the leash on the wall until you hook him up. Even if it isn't his day to walk, he will act like it is and make you miserable until he gets your attention. Sometimes even longer.

Gabby and Doozer are always around, usually touching us in some form or fashion. Spencer "squeaks" for real, incessantly, just because he can. He will yip his high pitched bark until you give him your undivided attention.

Sadie lives under the bed, and is most happy there. She will only bark and carry on if one of the other pups walks too close or starts to eye her rawhide. She will intentionally not chew hers until everyone else is finished and she can flaunt it.

Not a big squeaker at all.

Her twin brother, Scooter, is even quieter. He will hide behind chairs and in corners to try and not be seen. His hair grows like wildfire and the most activity you will see from him is if you try to groom it. Over the last 9 years I have managed to finally get him to stand almost still while I clip his back but when you get to his legs and feet - Katy bar the door, not happening. He has Sasquatch feet (think hairy boots from the 70s) because I can't bear the embarrassment of taking him to the groomer. I know he will have to be completely sedated to even get him on the table.

Then, there was Patches and Maggie. No squeak whatsoever.

Maggie was contented to lay on the back of the couch and stare out the front picture window. Or outside on the patio in the sun. Or at the foot of the bed while she was still able to jump up there. She was a quiet beauty that asked for little.

Patches was her "buddy". Once we got to eight dogs I started mentally pairing everyone up, male and female, to help keep track of them all. It just made it easier to keep up if I could check them by twos. Patches was a great protector, intimidating in his size. He would bark when it was required but rarely any other time. He was just always "there". Close at hand but never underfoot.

We lost Patches in August 2016 and Maggie just last week. Patches got sick one Sunday afternoon and was gone by Monday lunch. His liver had failed. Maggie had been declining over the last week or so, but we had an appointment and got her down to the vet. I knew what was wrong with her. I had even told the vet in my email to her (our vet works part time two days at one clinic and one day at a second clinic and is two hours away, each way, so I try to maximize our time in her office.) what tests I thought we needed to run. I thought we had plenty of time.

You see, I knew Maggie was diabetic. She had shown all the warning signs two years ago. And two years ago I had her and Frankie tested. Both were negative. The warning signs never abated, but they also didn't get any worse until that last week. I never sought a second opinion because I had the answer I wanted. She was fine! Earlier this summer I saw a black spot on her stomach. I texted a picture of it to the vet to see what she thought. She recommended neosporin and for me to watch it and report back. Billy and I had already had two dogs with Cushing's Disease, and Stormy's started with sores on her stomach. I got caught up in caring for all my "squeakers" and didn't do as asked. What I should have done was texted it to the vet and said "we'll see you Tuesday about this". But I didn't. When we got Maggie to the vet that day to confirm what I felt about her diabetes, her glucose was so high that it could not even be read, and she was Cushionoid. It was almost too late. We left her in the emergency clinic, still believing she would be fine, but she didn't survive the first night. Patches never even got that. We blamed his slowing down and not getting around so good as nothing more than old age. In fact, he was shutting down. Kicker of it is, we brought Riley out of liver failure in 2010. Livers can regenerate, depending on what is causing the problem, and so we know how to treat it. We just didn't see it.

Neither of them ever squeaked a bit. They were just their same, quiet, selves.

In saving the many I feel I failed the few.

I don't say that so you will tell me I'm a good mom and we tried and did all we could and all that. I know that in both cases we gave them life. Period. Not just a better life, but life itself. Patches was a four month old puppy at a shelter in Little Rock, owner surrendered or just unclaimed is irrelevant, and the shelter ran out of room or deemed him unadoptable or something and took him to the vet for his "final visit". Thankfully that vet saw a precious puppy, big and goofy, mixed Australian border collie and who knows what else, that was healthy and happy and just needed a chance and he couldn't "do the deed". My in-laws were in that vet's office, heard the story, and my sister-in-law, without hesitation, said "my brother will take him".

And he did.

The biggest four month old puppy I had ever seen came leaping out of his work van when he returned from Arkansas that trip. One month later my in-laws spotted Maggie loose on a country road, solid black and dark was falling. They took her home so she wouldn't get hit out there on that road. Knowing them as I do I'm sure they looked for her owner. When none was found, after a little shifting between houses, she ended up in Natchez with us. With her, Frankie and Patches we now had the Three Amigos.

I remember walking downstairs one day to find Maggie had our then almost 16 year old Christy by the scruff of the neck and was using her like a dust mop. Christy's eye were huge! She had never had anything like that happen! But Maggie was a gentle giant and did no harm. She was just a sweet baby trying to play.

Patches got 12 years, and Maggie 13. Not bad for bigger dogs that don't seem to have the longevity of smaller ones. I tell myself that even if we had caught on to their ailments earlier it might not have made a significant difference in their lifespan. Maybe a little longer, but they were already at the upper end.

We wonder what we would have done differently if we had known. We have made informed decisions to not do things. We didn't put Riley under anesthetic to check on a mass one doctor found. The risk was not worth the reward. At 12 years old he has already lived longer than most epileptics, and any kind of treatment for cancer was going to be a challenge with his schedule. So we chose not to know and hope for the best. That was over a year and a half ago and he is still going strong. With Frankie, some of her kidney values looked odd and more testing was recommended. Again, at the age of 14 was the risk of the anesthetic worth it? We wouldn't be doing any surgery or anything on her if they found something. So we opted to work with the diet changes and, again, hope for the best.

Ever since we brought Micky in as number 9 at the time, Billy has joked that we are an eight dog family. Sure enough a few months later Patches' passing made us an eight dog family again. Then Spencer joined us earlier this year to make nine, and we lost Maggie a few months later to go back to eight.

I think we'll stay this way for a while. Eight is enough. I remember thinking in 2001 when Stormy died that we had set ourselves up for heartbreak another three times already with Christy, Molly and Midnight. I sit here today looking at eight more, knowing that my heart will resemble Swiss cheese before it's all over.

We love our babies. All of them. This bunch will benefit from our lessons learned. No more waiting to see what happens. No more being embarrassed about what we haven't been able to do. No more "old age". We are not perfect, but we are good pet parents. We love the years we had with them, even while wishing for more. We are forever grateful and blessed for those two sweet babies that no one wanted and gave us so much.

Now, why do I tell you all of this? Again, not so you will praise us for our good works and reassure us that we did all we could and we didn't fail them. I tell you this so you will look at your own life and see what might need a little grease, even it if doesn't squeak yet. There is no law that says you have to wait until metal meets metal to do something.

Is it your health? Do you work so hard that you are continually grabbing fast food and not exercising enough? Do you wait until the squeak (a stroke, a heart attack) before you make a change? How about your relationships? Are you spending time working to provide for your family but your family isn't there anymore? What squeak are you waiting for there (drug abuse, alcohol abuse, teen pregnancy) before you head off some bad behaviors? Maybe a coworker? Are you doing everything in your power to be a part of the team at work and help things run smoothly or do you wait until the squeak (a missed promotion, termination) to figure out what you how you should be spending those eight hours a day.

Think about it. We all have our own toolbox of duct tape and WD-40 to "fix" the things in our lives, but we have to be looking, be aware, be in touch and in tune.

Think about it.

He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother

noreply@blogger.com (Deanne) — Tue, 05 Sep 2017 01:06:00 +0000

The road is long
With many a winding turn
That leads us to who knows where
Who knows where

But I'm strong
Strong enough to carry him
He ain't heavy, he's my brother
So on we go

His welfare is of my concern
No burden is he to bear
We'll get there

For I know
He would not encumber me
He ain't heavy, he's my brother

If I'm laden at all
I'm laden with sadness
That everyone's heart
Isn't filled with the gladness
Of love for one another

It's a long, long road
From which there is no return
While we're on the way to there
Why not share
And the load
Doesn't weigh me down at all
He ain't heavy he's my brother
He's my brother
He ain't heavy, he's my brother
Songwriters: Bob Russell / Bobby Scott
He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother lyrics © Music Sales Corporation

Growing up in the 1970s, I loved the Osmond Brothers. Not just Donny, all the brothers. I couldn’t articulate what I liked about their music - the harmonies, the content, the instruments – but I knew I liked it.

One of my favorite songs from this album is “He Ain’t Heavy”. I know they weren’t the first to sing it, but they were the ones singing when I first heard it. I loved that it was five brothers singing about carrying their brother when he’s down.

Of course, the message is on a much broader scale.

Life is not now as it was in the seventies. For better or worse.

Times were turbulent. Drugs were prevalent. The United States was at war. Protests were erupting all over in opposition to the government.

Hold on, maybe things aren’t that different today.

But I do think there was a simplicity to our society then that doesn’t exist today.

There were still the lingering societal mores from the fifties where neighbors looked after neighbors. Churches took care of their parishioners in times of crisis and need. People considered government assistance to be a last resort, not a career choice. You accepted an hand up when you needed it, but not a handout.

His welfare is of my concern
No burden is he to bear
We'll get there

I don’t even know all my neighbors. I’m amazed when I find out someone I know actually lives near me. People stay inside, lock their doors. They keep their problems under wraps. We don’t share because we don’t want others to know our life is less than perfect. In other words – normal.

No one goes through life without a bump, or two, in the road.

If I'm laden at all
I'm laden with sadness
That everyone's heart
Isn't filled with the gladness
Of love for one another

I watch the news now and my heart is sad. And angry. People don’t care about one another. It is every man for himself.

When I first started this post it was during the terrible, senseless, violence in Charlottesville, Virginia. The trouble there lasted for several days. A young woman was tragically murdered by a protester with his car. Military personnel died in a helicopter accident during those clashes. Days later a police officer was ambushed and killed in her patrol vehicle. All the words written above were from my heart during that time.

Sometimes I write, and wait. Sometimes I want to polish the piece. Sometimes I write in a stream of consciousness and stop when the stream dries up and then finish it later. My blog list is littered with drafts of just that nature, waiting for the lightning bolt to hit with the words to pull it together. The above was one such piece.

On August 25, 2017, Hurricane Harvey came ashore over Rockport, Texas as a category 4 storm, leaving destruction in its wake. The path shifted ever so slightly and moved northeast, stalling over Houston. Feet of rain dumped on Houston in less than 24 hours. Flooding was everywhere. Thousand of people were trying to evacuate. Harvey turned and headed back into the Gulf of Mexico, trying to gather a new head of steam, and made landfall again around Port Arthur and Beaumont, Texas. Right on the border with Louisiana.

The national media outlets descended on the area and of course, the footage of the disaster area left from Hurricane Harvey is actually more heartwarming than watching the protesters fighting each other over an ideal. The scenes of the Cajun Navy rescuing the stranded brought tears. Seeing miles of pickup trucks with fishing boats on trailers, drivers awaiting instruction of where to start looking made your heart smile. This was how people are supposed to help fellow human beings.

The road is long
With many a winding turn
That leads us to who knows where
Who knows where
But I'm strong
Strong enough to carry him
He ain't heavy, he's my brother
So on we go

His welfare is of my concern
No burden is he to bear
We'll get there

For I know
He would not encumber me
He ain't heavy, he's my brother

If I'm laden at all
I'm laden with sadness
That everyone's heart
Isn't filled with the gladness
Of love for one another
It's a long, long road

From which there is no return
While we're on the way to there
Why not share
And the load
Doesn't weigh me down at all
He ain't heavy he's my brother
He's my brother
He ain't heavy, he's my brother

Two national events in eleven days. Two different responses. Two different results.

God Bless Texas, and everyone from anywhere who has lifted their Texan brother on their shoulders and carried him down that long, winding road - to drier ground, to shelter, to food, to comfort.

When we work together, no one is too heavy to help.

They Timed Out

noreply@blogger.com (Deanne) — Fri, 11 Aug 2017 19:08:00 +0000

If you have ever played Words With Friends you have probably seen the phrase "they timed out". It happens when an opponent takes too long on their move. And the timer is usually about 14 days. Since I am not a "nudger" (another Words With Friends action for when your opponent is taking too long, in your opinion), I see it quite a bit with my random opponents. Sometimes they like to start a game thinking we will finish in the same night. When I can't, they move on.

So, I play a variety of folks - random opponents, Facebook friends, old friends, and family. Basically, anyone that wants to. I like the challenge and I believe that I am keeping my brain healthy. And it helps me feel connected people that I don't see on a regular basis. A daily "touch", if you will.

One such opponent that I have played regularly for years, we will call her KB, is a cousin. Growing up, I would see her in the summers when I visited my grandparents. In an odd quirk of fate, that happens a good bit on my mom's side of the family, the age differences are oddities. This cousin and I are fourth cousins - her father and my grandfather were first cousins - and I am about three months older than she. My grandmother would take me to her house when I would visit and we would hang out. I think I will be forever scarred by the time she let me drive their golf cart and I got too close to a tree and the cart brushed a branch with a bird's nest in it. I didn't know it until we got ready to stop and I reached down to shift the gear handle and saw these little birds, mouths wide open, staring at me. It was a horrible feeling. I can still see it in my mind's eye to this day.   But she took care of it.

Like me, she studied accounting in college, I at Hendrix and she at the University of Arkansas, and I think was also offered a position with Ernst & Whinney when I was in 1988, but she opted to stay at the University and get a law degree. As happens sometimes, we lost contact over the years as we got older and started our families. I knew she had married someone that I was also distantly related to, and had three children - including twins. I also knew she went to work for a law firm in Little Rock.

We had had similar paths, but they were not parallel. Occasionally I would get updates on where she was and what she was doing. I moved out of the area and was doing my own thing, too. It happens.

As also happens sometimes, Facebook connects people.

I can't tell you exactly when we became Facebook friends, but I know we were before Naunie passed away in 2012 and that it was great to get to see her in person at the visitation. We got to talk for a few minutes as if we had just seen each other the week before. We have also been playing Words With Friends together for many years.

She has beat me 86 games to 7, so far.

Recently, KB suffered a stroke. Blessedly, she is still with us. She was leaving court one day, probably like so many days before, and her assistant noticed she didn't look "right". An ambulance was called. I, like many others, posted prayers on her Facebook page and watched for word that she would be okay.

Currently, she is in rehab. Making progress every day.

Even though I knew it was coming, it still felt like a gut punch on the day that Words With Friends told me I had won the game we had in progress. Right under the words You Won! it says They Timed Out.

They Timed Out.

It hits you that the "time out" could have been a permanent situation.

Sometimes Life just slaps you in the face and makes you ask all the hard questions - am I where I want to be, am I the person I should be, am I doing all I can for all that I can? Or am I trying to be what the world wants me to be?

Am I even close to being the person I should be?

I know I feel blessed that KB's stroke was only a wake up call, and not just for her (and I shouldn't assume it was a wake up call for her. We have not discussed it, and she may be perfectly happy with the life she has lived to this point. She may have nothing that she would do differently.)  Being older than she, if only by a few months, has made me wonder if it could happen to me? Am I doing anything to prevent it?

Can I prevent it?

What else might be waiting for me of which I am unaware?

How about you?

Not trying to be morbid, or telling people to run in tomorrow to their bosses and quit their high stress jobs. No, just trying to raise awareness. Just trying to provoke some thoughts. We all need that little elbow in the ribs on occasion as we tend to get complacent, caught up, and lose focus on our bigger picture.

There are some things that are inevitable and for which we cannot do anything to alter the conclusion. Some things just are what they are. But we can live a life that says if I "timed out" tomorrow I would be okay with it - I have lived a good life, done what I wanted to do, given back where I could, tried to make a lasting impact with my family and/or others in my circuit. I can be move on confident in the knowledge that I would have no regrets, leaving nothing undone.

I will remind you of one of my favorite sayings - live life not like it your last day, but the last day of a loved one.

Makes you think, doesn't it?

KB still has work to do, but she is making progress. She has moved up to using a cane and may get to go home next week. God is good!

And we give Him many thanks.   The least of which is for the reminder.

The Locked Door

noreply@blogger.com (Deanne) — Sun, 05 Feb 2017 21:54:00 +0000

I saw this analogy the other day and really liked it. This is just my effort to expand on it, some.

At night, we lock our doors. At our house there are two locks on the front exterior door, two locks on the interior back door, and three on the back exterior door.

Some would say we are well protected.

The question I saw that prompted this post asked this - why do we lock our doors? Because we hate the world outside? Or because we love the ones inside?

We lock ourselves in at night to protect - protect our very beings, protect our loved ones, protect the things that make our house our home.

But why do we have to lock the doors at all? Talk to anyone a generation, or two, older than you and they are quick to point out they grew up without ever locking a door - day or night. We have to lock our doors because somewhere in time people started to do bad things.

Things like stealing, rape, murder.

So we lock ourselves in and hope that helps keep us safe.

If someone unexpectedly rings your doorbell during the day what do you do? Do you throw it wide open and welcome whomever is there into your home? Or do you look through the peephole, or out the window to see who it is? Do you call through the door "who is it?" Most of us will do something to try and identify the person if we were not expecting a visitor.

What if you call through the door and the person responds "UPS man. I have a package.
Signature required." You don't necessarily remember ordering anything. Maybe someone sent you a gift? At that point do you open the door? Or do you look and see if he is wearing a brown uniform and there is a big brown truck parked in front of your house.

What if he says "UPS man. I have a package. Signature required." but when you look outside you see a FedEx truck. Or a beat up cargo van and the person is not dressed as you expected. You can tell him to just leave the package, sure. Slide the signature slip in the mailslot or just refuse the package. But in my little scenario here let's take it one step further. You call the local UPS dispatch and ask if they have a driver in your neighborhood. And if so, is he dressed like a pizza delivery man?

My point is you will go to, sometimes, great lengths before just opening your door to a stranger.

If the UPS dispatch confirms your worst fears, then you call the police. But what if they refuse to answer your question? What if they simply won't give you the information you need? How can you make an informed decision about whether or not to open the door to this stranger.

You know where I'm headed with this.

Lately, much has been said about the Trump Travel Ban. Not all of it accurate. Some of it sensationalized - depending on which major news outlet you watch. Celebrities cry out for justice for an unfair stance for innocent people. Protests ensued across this nation. Oh the inhumanity!

I read most of the original Executive Order this morning. I read it on the White House's website, not someone else's interpretation of it.

Excepts below:

Section 1. Purpose. The visa-issuance process plays a crucial role in detecting individuals with terrorist ties and stopping them from entering the United States. Perhaps in no instance was that more apparent than the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001, when State Department policy prevented consular officers from properly scrutinizing the visa applications of several of the 19 foreign nationals who went on to murder nearly 3,000 Americans. And while the visa-issuance process was reviewed and amended after the September 11 attacks to better detect would-be terrorists from receiving visas, these measures did not stop attacks by foreign nationals who were admitted to the United States.

Numerous foreign-born individuals have been convicted or implicated in terrorism-related crimes since September 11, 2001, including foreign nationals who entered the United States after receiving visitor, student, or employment visas, or who entered through the United States refugee resettlement program. Deteriorating conditions in certain countries due to war, strife, disaster, and civil unrest increase the likelihood that terrorists will use any means possible to enter the United States. The United States must be vigilant during the visa-issuance process to ensure that those approved for admission do not intend to harm Americans and that they have no ties to terrorism.

In order to protect Americans, the United States must ensure that those admitted to this country do not bear hostile attitudes toward it and its founding principles. The United States cannot, and should not, admit those who do not support the Constitution, or those who would place violent ideologies over American law. In addition, the United States should not admit those who engage in acts of bigotry or hatred (including “honor” killings, other forms of violence against women, or the persecution of those who practice religions different from their own) or those who would oppress Americans of any race, gender, or sexual orientation.

In essence, our President put a lock on the front door to the United States of America.

We used to have more freedom to come and go, Much like our grandparents slept with unlocked doors, travel around the world was much much simpler before September 11, 2001.

Then people came in and did bad things. Nineteen people to be exact.

They took advantage of our open policies.

And it continued - the Boston Marathon; an Orlando night club; San Bernardino. Terrorists acts committed by those that have different beliefs that those Americans hold true - freedoms that we enjoy. Please notice that in that section of Purpose no specific persons, religions, nationalities, or any other identifiers were listed. Just anyone wishing to commit acts related to bigotry or hatred. How is that a bad thing?

(a) The Secretary of Homeland Security, in consultation with the Secretary of State and the Director of National Intelligence, shall immediately conduct a review to determine the information needed from any country to adjudicate any visa, admission, or other benefit under the INA (adjudications) in order to determine that the individual seeking the benefit is who the individual claims to be and is not a security or public-safety threat.

Much like looking out the window or through the peephole or calling UPS dispatch in my example, our country is charged with gathering information on those that wish to come in so that we can ensure our own safety. Because without adequate information no reasonable conclusion can be reached.

I hereby proclaim that the immigrant and nonimmigrant entry into the United States of aliens from countries referred to in section 217(a)(12) of the INA, 8 U.S.C. 1187(a)(12), would be detrimental to the interests of the United States, and I hereby suspend entry into the United States, as immigrants and nonimmigrants, of such persons for 90 days from the date of this order (excluding those foreign nationals traveling on diplomatic visas, North Atlantic Treaty Organization visas, C-2 visas for travel to the United Nations, and G-1, G-2, G-3, and G-4 visas).

Our President asked for three months. Three months only. Seven countries are listed in the document. Only seven. And those seven are like the UPS dispatcher that wouldn't answer the simplest of questions in my scenario. If they can't tell us what we need to know, then their people don't get to come in. Otherwise, that would be like opening the front door to a complete stranger and then wondering why they are carrying off your big screen television with a knife held to your throat.

To watch the news you would think that a giant dome descended over our country on the day of the signing of this Order with no one getting in our out. Not true.

I'm not going to debate on the President's actions as a matter of principle. He saw a need and he took action, as was within the right of his office. I have no problem in the world with that. There will always be those that say "He should have done this. He could handled it that way. He didn't do it the way I would have done it. Why did he say this?"

Can't we all say that every day about someone and something? No one will ever make everyone happy. It just won't happen.

My point is that the United States of America is our home, just like our house in Natchez is mine and Billy's home. A subset of the greater whole. And just like we protect our structure in that subset it is imperative that we all do all we can to protect our greater home.

Whether or not you voted for President Trump; whether or not you've changed your mind one way or the other about him; whether or not you like him at all or anything about him, he is the President and one of his duties is to protect this country. I think he did that with this order.

I wish people could put aside their differences. I've always said we are a nation during things like the Olympics - us against the world. Why can we not assume a similar stance when it comes to our own protection and say, collectively, tell us what we need to know to come in, or you can just stay outside?

Leave your package on the porch. I can stay in where it's safe.

Celebrate YOU!

noreply@blogger.com (Deanne) — Sun, 01 Jan 2017 06:30:00 +0000

I borrowed the following, with permission, from my friend, Shelly Dunaway. She is often the source of wisdom and inspiration to me, and others. Shelly and I were acquaintances in high school, even did a play together, I think, but really connected through Facebook in the last several years, and even managed to see each other in person in Baton Rouge in January this year at a run.

She saw this one day, and what follows was her Facebook post on it.

Woah!!! What a thought provoking question! And so many directions to go with this one... the first thing that jumps out at me is the word "things"! And the silent, yet true, implication that we would love an object before loving ourself. (I'll spare you my soapbox here!!!). But the deeper message here for me, is that we generally don't even consider the importance of self love... For myself, personally, loving yourself has always had the negative connotation of being selfish, arrogant or conceited... and I was raised to believe that you should try really hard not to be any of those things! 😉 And so I lived a lot of years not ever considering the real importance and actual need for self love. Now... self loathing... I'm a pro at that one... dare I say most of us are!! We're not skinny enough... pretty enough... smart enough... fast enough... good enough... we could make a mile long list of the things we are NOT in the blink of an eye! But ask us to write down one thing that we ARE.... and the internal struggle to identify our true worth begins. And why?!?! Yep... that's the million dollar question, right there! And how sad is it that we struggle to find things about ourselves to love! Because it is through the love for ourselves that we are able to love others more completely. God loved us first... and He loved us enough to create us in His Devine image... so THAT'S gotta be worth something, right! 😊 So we should definitely put ourselves on the tip top of that LOVE LIST!! And make the effort every single day to identify at least one thing about ourselves worth loving!!! Yep... Ima start myself a 💗 list and put ME at the top! 😉

I think her thoughts really need no expansion, but I'm going to add my two cents in anyway. Just because. It's what I do.

I picked January 1st to post this for a reason.

Today is the first day of a new year. A brand new start.   And just like Shelly is going to put herself on the top of the list of "things" she loves, so should we all. Especially since in the next few weeks we will be bombarded from all directions of all the things "wrong" with us.

Every January the New Year's resolutions get trotted out, and most start with lose weight/exercise more. Magazine covers will blast us with pictures of celebrities and real people that "dropped half her size! You can too! See how!" and Jillian Michaels will be hawking the latest version of the Nordic Xwhatevernumber incline trainer where "all you have to do is walk, even on the beaches of Fiji". as she flips through the related videos looking for the perfect one. We will be made to feel that there is something wrong with us if we aren't a size -2, or look like we did in high school when this year's reunion rolls around.

So we will hear for about a month or so how much about ourselves we need to fix, and where to buy the products to help us do so.

Now, do not misunderstand. I am all about a healthy lifestyle. Healthy habits will resolve a lot of these problems we perceive that we have - happy hormones get released, blood pressure stays lower, digestion is improved, and pre-diabetes can be managed without medications. But why do we have to have it thrown at us as a correction to a problem? Why can't we look at ourselves and say "I am a great person. I want to live a long time being a great person. Is my current lifestyle allowing me to do that?"

If we can love ourselves first and focus on fostering that, I truly believe the other will follow. If you are a great letter writer, resolve to sit down once a week and write to a friend, or an elderly relative, or even to your future grandchildren things you want them to know about you. If you are an avid reader, volunteer for a literacy program to help others share that same love of the written word. Or read to children at the library in the summers, or to those in a long-term care facility for whom reading is no longer possible. Sharing your joy with others can go a long way toward lowering that stress, which lowers your blood pressure and improves your mood. Some say less stress means less cortisol which will help trim your waistline.   See, all that benefit without buying one expensive treadmill. And you've still invested time in being a "better" you, and spending that time doing something you love instead of something that you might dread.

Focus on what you do right instead of what others tell us is wrong.

I also liked Shelly's comments about growing up to not be braggy or conceited. I think those ideas are still prevalent with a lot of us. I was training for a triathlon this summer and one neighbor would see my running partner and I out getting our miles in on the weekends and she commented one day, usually because it was high noon when we were doing it, and I was so proud to tell her that I had gotten up early and tackled that day and already gotten my swim training in and I got enjoy the day when we got home from the run. I was told not to brag (not by the neighbor, by my partner). I'm not sure how I said that it came out like I was bragging, but in reflection, I wasn't doing that, merely sharing with her. I was very pleased with myself! And it does take a lot of training and dedication to even attempt something like a long distance triathlon. If seeing me do it helps someone else get to work on one of their goals, whatever they are, then so be it.   I think a lot of perceived bragging has to do with the delivery.

I am a 50 year old asthmatic. If I can tackle something like that then I think anyone should be encouraged to try that which they may not think possible. Many people would never have thought something like that was on my radar. (I still haven't finished the big one yet, but I've done many shorter distances, and I can do the distance for each individual leg of the tri, just can't put it all together yet. And I may not ever be able to, but I can keep trying.)

So, where are YOU on your list of things you love? If not at the top, then let me pose a New Year's resolution for you - add yourself and work that list. For the record, I don't do resolutions. I set goals. Goals are something that you are always working towards. Resolutions seems to be things that get tossed aside the first time they are broken. I cannot disappoint myself that way. If I don't meet my goal one year, it just rolls on to the next year's list and I keep trying. I am by no stretch of the imagination perfect, but I'm not all bad, either.

Self-love. Loving ourselves because He first loved us. Loving ourselves because we are worthy of being loved, even if only by ourselves.

But I don't think that really happens. If we love ourselves. and do for ourselves what we would do for anyone else we loved, then more love follows. We have to lead by example. We may hear that we can't be loved if we don't love ourselves. That isn't true either. We are just less likely to accept love from others if we have not first allowed ourselves to believe ourselves worthy.

I look for great things in 2017. There were so many things wrong with 2016 (THAT's another blog post) that I look forward to closing the door on it tonight and hoping and praying for a better new year. And, of course, doing my part to try and make those things happen. There are still some things within our control in our lives.

I wish the same for each of you. Peace, love, joy, happiness, fulfillment. All good stuff. Think long and hard about what you want for 2017 and the things that bring you peace, love, joy, and happiness. I hope you find yourself on that list. Preferably at the top, but as long as you are on it, I'm good with it.

Celebrate YOU! You are the only one like you in the world.

Happy New Year!

Why Me?

noreply@blogger.com (Deanne) — Thu, 24 Nov 2016 06:30:00 +0000

In the immortal words of Kris Kristofferson:

"Why me Lord
What have I ever done
To deserve even one
Of the blessings I've known
Why me Lord
What did I ever do
That was worth love from you
And the kindness you've shown"

One of the sweetest sounding words in the English language, in my opinion, is "benign". Probably the only sweeter word is "remission".

Twice in ten months I was blessed to hear the word benign. Twice in ten months I had medical procedures, one more extensive than the other, but both ended in the word I wanted to hear. You want to stand on the rooftop and shout out as loudly as you possibly can "I DON'T HAVE CANCER!"

But you don't.

"Why me, Lord?"

Because, as wonderful as you feel in that instant, you have friends that aren't. I had friends this summer that started their treatments for breast cancer, some that finished their treatments, some that continued their battle, and some that got the all clear after fighting the good fight.

And the guilt creeps in a little. Why was I so lucky? How did I dodge a bullet? Not once but twice. What makes me different? Why do I get to be so happy when others aren't?

"What have I ever done....?"

Is the Lord giving me a pass on this one because He has something else in store for me, a bigger challenge? Or is it His way of saying "you've had enough in this life my child" as a reward for dealing with things I've dealt with?

I simply don't know.

"To deserve even one"

We think the same thing about Riley. In 2008 we had no idea that dogs could even have epilepsy, much less how prevalent it is. Through the magic of social media we have met and formed relationships with so many families around the world that wake up every day, as we do, and say a prayer that it ends seizure free. And then we pray again at bedtime that the night will be quiet.

We follow each other online, touching base daily, smiling at pictures of our pups acting like
"normal" pups. We share our experiences with those just starting down this path. We all hold our collective breath when one gets visited by "the monster".

And we cry deep in our hearts when one crosses the Rainbow Bridge. Because no matter how old they were, it wasn't old enough. We hug our own epi warrior just a little tighter and you wonder, why me? Why us?

Riley had severe cluster seizures every two weeks for over two years. He's been through liver failure. He continues to face health issues every day, including congestive heart failure and cancer.

At the age of 12-ish, our little Timex "takes a lickin' and keeps on tickin'", at least that is how it feels.

Some of our online friends have lost their warriors at only four or five years old. Too young. Why is our Riley so lucky? While we know that nothing is forever, he just keeps defying the odds. In fact, one of his latest health concerns is simply a factor of living long enough to get it.

"Of the blessings I've known"

I intentionally had this piece post on Thanksgiving. A day of thanks for all our blessings. A day, often overlooked, or at least shortchanged, for remembering all the gifts we have received in our lives.

Our families, our marriage, friends, work, our health, our community, food on our tables.

The love of our Lord.

A free country with all the riches we could possibly desire if we only go after them.

Too often, we let the day-to-day take it's toll. Money concerns. Aging parents. Health issues. Un, or under, employment. It's important to step back and say thank you. I may have "this", but I don't have to deal with "that".

We all have a cross to bear but sometimes we forget to say thank you for our cross and that our cross is not the one that someone else has to bear. And to remember to say to thank you to the One, and all the others, that help us carry that cross. That help us get our burdens to where they need to be so we can turn them over to the One that bears them all, for all of us if we only ask and give it up.

"That was worth love from you"

So, thank you. To my friends, family, coworkers, neighbors past and present for making my life richer. To the farmers that raised the food we will eat today; and to the workers that processed it, packaged it, and sold it. To law enforcement, first responders, and our military for keeping us safe. To the educators who helped shape my minds; the medical world for keeping me healthy; and everyone who has helped me become the person I am. To the best husband a girl could ever ask for, or even dream about.

And to all of you, wherever and whoever you are. You read these posts. You support my dreams. You rock! And for you, I am thankful. "And the kindness you've shown"