Decriminalizing Drugs: Should America Consider It?

Portugal decriminalized the personal possession of drugs--pot, coke, heroin and meth--in 2001. Prior to that, the country had one of the highest rates of hard drug use in Europe. Faced with a problem they could not control, Portugal chose instead to try a new approach. Instead of jail time, those found with small amounts of the drugs were offered therapy--which they could refuse with no repercussions.

What do you think happened? The answer might surprise you. According to a Cato Institute report published this month, drug use among teens in Portugal has declined, as did the rate of new HIV infections due to dirty needles. The number of folks seeking treatment for drug addiction more than doubled. (To read the Time magazine article in its entirety, visit http://www.time.com/time/health/article/0,8599,1893946,00.html.)

This is impressive news no matter how you look at it. Portugal has proven that government can manage the drug problem if it can let go of the need to punish. We're big on punishment here in America. Maybe it goes back to our Puritan roots. I'm not sure we'll ever be able to evolve beyond that need.

But clearly, we are failing miserably--over and over again--in our approach to dealing with drug use. America has the highest rate of marijuana and cocaine use, yet we have the most stringent laws. We fear liberalism so much that we are unwilling to pay attention to the success other parts of the world--mainly the EU--is experiencing with their policies.

Like so many of our national policies, the ones we enforce regarding drugs are based on fear and speculation. We ignore empirical evidence in favor of wild imagination and "what if" scenarios.

Let me be clear: I am not a fan of drugs. I've never smoked pot, popped pills, tripped on acid, or taken anything stronger than an alcoholic drink. Drugs do not interest or fascinate me. My brother's drug use informed my childhood, and I believe it played a large role in the breakup of my parents' already dysfunctional marriage, and hence, our family. If anyone could be the Anita Bryant of the drug issue, it's me.

But I'm not in the majority. Most people experiment with one drug or another at some point in their lives. Many continue to use if not regularly, at least sporadically. Recreational drug use is an integral part of modern society, and like it or not, we must find a way to deal with it so that it ceases to be a major health and safety concern. Portugal seems to have stumbled on to something that works.

There is a segment of the American population that holds the attitude that drugs are bad and must be gotten rid of, and anything less is unacceptable. We've tried this; it isn't working. I agree they're a health hazard, but I'm a realist and know they will never be gotten rid of. Our punitive response to drug use has at least proven that: Regardless of how we view any and all drug use, it is never going to disappear. Drugs are here to stay, and we can either seek effective methods of management and semi-control, or we can continue to let the problem spiral downward, taking more and more of our friends and family with it. Portugal understands this; why can't America?

When the taboo of something has been lifted, common sense says more people will participate. The taboo of drug use is not what it once was. More people are more open about their use. The world has changed. We must find a way to work with the change because society will never revert to what it once was. Conditions and attitudes will never regress. We are where we are, and we have to work with that and stop trying to move backward.

Yet here we are, banging our heads against the wall because we can't seem to get a handle on things. But we keep trudging along the same path. Don't know who said it, but the quotation "When the only tool you have is a hammer, every problem looks like a nail" comes to mind. We have hammered away at the drug problem long enough, with pathetic results. It's time to take a new approach, come up with a strategy based on the desire for true impact, not punishment of the "wicked."

More than one million nonviolent drug users are behind bars. I don't call this progress. I hope you don't either.

Of Snow, Naked Women, and the Definition of Art

Our Spring Break is nearing its close, and I'd have to say it's been a memorable one not because of any unusual events or magic moments, but because of its remarkable calm.

We began the week with a short trek to Denver. If you have children of a wide age range, you know how difficult it is to find activities they'll all enjoy. Max is 16; Bella just turned 8. Tuck and Tavia fall somewhere in the middle. Inevitably, someone complains or doesn't want to participate in any organized activity.

This wasn't the case for us this time. We began our adventure with a (free) tour of Hammond's candy factory. Watching how candy canes and ribbon candy were made was fun. What I didn't expect was the kids to notice that every factory worker we saw was some ethnicity other than white. That opened up a discussion on wages, hiring practices, and workplace conditions. Who knew a free tour to a candy factory could be an educational experience? I'm thinking maybe the younger kids were expecting Oompa Loompas, but the reality was a far cry from Willy Wonka's chocolate factory. Don't misunderstand--I have no idea what Hammond's pays their employees, and the factory seemed in fine shape. But I was totally loving that my kids' minds were thinking past what they were seeing to what it meant.

Next stop was the Denver Museum of Nature & Science, where we attended a free interactive exhibition: Nature Unleashed. It featured four types of natural disasters: earthquakes, volcanoes, hurricanes and tornadoes. Windsor was included in that last segment, so we had a vested interest in what was being presented. And it was fabulous. Bella kept excitedly sharing with me new information and facts she was learning along the way, and she was mightily impressed with what she was finding out. For Tavi, knowledge is power. And after living through the tornado last May, she's struggled along the way to get past her newfound fear of any weather other than sunshine. This exhibition helped a great deal. Again--entertainment proved highly educational, and we talked about history (the volcano that leveled Pompeii, the great San Francisco earthquake of 1906) and devastation (Hurricane Katrina, our own F3 tornado) all the way to the hotel.

We spent our second day at the Denver Art Museum. It features a new exhibition called "The Psychedelic Experience," which chronicles the hand-designed venue and rock concert posters from Haight Ashbury (San Francisco) from 1965 to 1971. Think Ken Kesey's acid tests, Beat poetry, the early days of Jefferson Airplane, Grateful Dead, and other history-making musicians. This exhibition was admittedly less interesting to Tavi and Bella than it was to the rest of us; they have scant knowledge of that era and no understanding whatsoever of the drug/psychedelic culture. Bella was curious as to why there were so many "naked ladies" in the posters and artwork. I asked if she was uncomfortable, and she said no, she just wanted to know why there were 17 women in various states of undress adorning the walls. So I explained the history of that era using age-appropriate language and descriptions, and she was quite satisfied with what she learned. And she left that temporary exhibition with the knowledge that many folks consider the naked human body a work of art, something to celebrate and honor. In that spirit, she informed me she'd found two more.

All in all, we spent 4 1/2 hours in the art museum. As we visited various floors, we took in art from around the world. Some of it was fantastic; some not so much. Max and I got into a great debate on the definition of art. Specifically, he asked if something is functional, is it art (he says it isn't, I say most certainly can be). The younger kids were amazed that some art pieces were created centuries ago, and they gained a solid understanding that art can be an enlightening representation of a culture. We discussed the purpose of art, what it's "supposed" to do, why it's valuable or not. I was thrilled that each of the kids was able to appreciate what s/he was seeing on an individual level. Mostly, I like that even Bella can now go beyond saying "I like that" to explaining what it is about something that moves her.

The hotel we stayed at--a Sleep Inn on 120th Ave--was a nightmare. Exposed electrical boxes in the pool room, a hot tub guard rail that wobbled and came out of the ground, peeling paint (lead, anyone?), crumbled wall tiles, a plastic chair with a broken leg that someone propped back up and which Max quickly discovered was not stable, a headboard that pulled out of the wall if you so much as leaned against it to watch TV, bathroom doors that refused to lock or even close all the way...the list is endless. But we got a lot of laughs out of it anyway and felt like we were livin' on the edge, wondering what would fall apart next.

And then yesterday, we enjoyed a major snowstorm. The entire family spent the day inside, watching Indiana Jones movies and playing the game Life. We made a huge breakfast and ate too much junk food as we hung out. Wes had a roaring fire going all day, and throughout it all, snow continued to steadily fall and blow with a beauty only nature can pull off. It was just perfect.

Too often, there's conflict of one kind or another when you put a large family together and try to please everyone. This Spring Break has been a gift to me and my family. We all deserve that once in a while.

What Makes for a "Good" Father?

While this may not come as a shock to anyone who really knows me--and I mean knows me--it bears being clearly stated: I am not the easiest significant other to be with.

Yes, I am extremely low maintenance. Nope, I'm not needy in any sense of the word. In fact, any guy whose been with me for a substantial amount of time very likely has wondered at times if I even like him, I need so little. I'm an eternal optimist, even as the world comes crashing down. Just today, Wes called from work to inform me that he's losing his job for at least a month, if not longer. My first thought was, Wow! We can finally finish painting the family room. It's been half done for 3 years!

But.

I have high expectations when it comes to parenting. Only, I didn't know they were high. To me, they seem reasonable and obvious. I believe in being involved in the lives of my kids. Not when it's convenient or easy. Not when I feel like it. Not when I don't have something else I'd rather be doing. I believe in it at all times. Both parents.

And by involved, I don't mean overbearing or hovering or coddling. I don't tell my kids they're awesome when they're not. I don't heap praise on them for behaving as they should. If they're acting like brats, I tell them they're being bratty. I'm not politically correct. I use the words "shit" and "hell" and "damn" because sometimes they're the only words that express what I mean. I yell when I'm mad and don't act any differently around other people's kids than I do my own. What you see of me in public is what you'd see of me at home.

What I'm trying to say is, I am far from perfect. I make mistakes. But I don't let a day go by without telling every one of my kids I love them. I try to have a few uninterrupted moments with each of them every day. I don't hesitate to tell them I'm proud of them if the situation calls for it, and I am available to them when they need me. I advise, listen, discuss, debate. Together we learn, butt heads, compromise, concede. We are a family. A messy, loving, loud family.

Recently, one of my kids' friends' dad told me he's a good father to his school-age children. I asked him why he thinks that, and he said he drives them places, cooks for them, helps with their homework when he can. He puts food on the table.

This same dad thinks it's okay to drink himself into unconsciousness every couple of weeks because he used to do it every night. He thinks it's okay to smoke a joint or bowl and then try (and fail) to be responsible and attentive (he and his wife are divorced, so he has his kids on his own 3-4 days/nights a week). He leaves the house without tellings his kids while they're out playing, then doesn't answer his cell phone when they call, worried and wondering where he is. He doesn't pay his bills, doesn't work much, doesn't give them any sense of security.

His house is not a home; the kids have very little of their things there. He commits to attending and participating in school functions and then backs out last minute. His kids say they're used to it. I hate him when I hear them say that.

I understand that perhaps this father is an exception to the vast majority of dads out there. But I'm not sure he is. Why do so many men who have kids believe they should get gold stars for doing the bare minimum? Why do they think putting food on the table is all that's required of them? Why do they think they can drink and party and set a horrible example and then smack their kids around when they fall out of line? Why are so many dads assholes?

I know there are some fabulous, dedicated, loving fathers out there. I know some. I read about others. Some of them, I see at school when I'm picking up my kids. Some are reading this column right now. I know they exist.

And I know there are some frighteningly awful mothers. I see them too. Even know a couple. But there seems to be some sort of internal mechanism that tells a lot of guys that this parenting thing is like a hobby: Do it when you feel like it, but don't let it take over your life.

Being a volunteer in the schools, teaching classes and making presentations, I see a lot of wounded kids. A lot. More than I ever thought there could be. They're hurt, angry, distant. I know some second grade kids whose defenses are already in place; their lives will not be easy.

Life's hard. I get that. But when we have kids, we must put them first. All the time. That doesn't mean we need to be perfect, or with them at all times. It doesn't mean we never allow them to struggle or fall, fail or fear. It means we love them. And when loving them isn't enough--and most days, it isn't--we must put our weaknesses and desires aside and step up to the plate.

Being good enough should be the exception, not the rule.

Autism & Vaccinations: Where the Personal IS Political

The federal court ruled last week that there is insufficient evidence to prove the link between autism and childhood vaccinations. Specifically, the MMR (measles, mumps, rubella) vaccine. A victory for some, a crippling defeat for others, it is a ruling that, to me, is moot. Courts must rely solely on physical evidence to make their decisions; proving beyond the shadow of a doubt that the MMR causes autism in some children is impossible. There are too many underlying and individual factors.

But that doesn't mean I believe there's no link between the MMR and autism. I do.

And before I go any further, let me be clear that I have no medical background or vested interest in taking one side or the other. I don't have an autistic child. Nor do I have a vaccinated child. I have healthy children who have never been vaccinated. And I researched the hell out of vaccinations before making the decision to forego that particular childhood tradition. This was back in 1992. I haven't stopped studying the topic since.

I think the decision to vaccinate one's children is personal. Parents have the right to choose either way, and then they must live with the consequences of that choice. What irritates me to no end is when a parent accepts vaccinations as mandatory and doesn't question their efficacy, safety, or logic. I mean, we're talking a child's life here...this decision is not along the lines of piercing ears or even circumcision; this is a decision which may involve injecting toxins directly into a healthy human body in an unnatural way. If a parent has thought this through, weighed the circumstances, and then makes the decision in favor of or against, she has done so (presumably) out of love for her child and the desire to keep that child healthy and safe. If, on the other hand, she allows her child to be vaccinated simply because it's what she's told to do, then I have no respect for that. I'm a firm believer in questioning authority when authority needs to be questioned.

I'm not writing this column because I think children shouldn't be vaccinated. I'm writing it because I think the time has come (is overdue, actually) to re-evaluate the role of vaccines. They were definitely a blessing when first introduced, as were labor unions and public schools. But times change and our social constructs and institutions must change if they are to remain valuable and effective.

The first cases of autism were diagnosed in 1943; all eleven diagnoses were among children who were born in the months after thimerosal, a form of mercury, was first added to infant vaccinations in 1931. Today, autism has reached epidemic proportions, and parents are advised to give their children more vaccines than ever before. Is it mere coincidence that the number of cases of diagnosed autism has drastically increased as the number of "required" childhood vaccines has risen? I can't imagine it is.

I made the choice not vaccinate based on research and instinct. As parents, we must trust that inner voice that alternately screams and whispers to us. I have been chastised by medical personnel (but not all of them) and scorned by other parents for my decision. Yet I have never regretted it. That doesn't mean I think it's the right choice for everyone. But it was right for me and my children.

I just want people to think. Think about their choices, their actions, their behavior. Too many folks seem to just go along with the norm and never stop to consider why it's the norm. I don't necessarily want you to agree with me. I just want you to know why you disagree.

For a thought-provoking expose on autism and vaccinations, check out this Rolling Stone article: http://www.rollingstone.com/politics/story/7395411/deadly_immunity/ . The level of integrity and investigative journalism is noteworthy, and regardless of which side of the fence you sit on for this issue, it will give you pause to ponder.

A New Day Dawns

As I write on this glorious, sunny day, I'm watching the Inaugural ceremonies. I've been watching since earlier this morning, and as the day unfolds, I find myself feeling a stronger sense of national pride than I've felt in years. It's not that I ever did not want to be an American; no mere mortal could ever wield that magnitude of power over me. But in recent years, I've come to feel misrepresented as an individual American on virtually every front. Respect for the presidential office aside, Bush simply was never my president.

Today I feel hope--unlimited, bottomless surges of hope. The idea of hope is a welcome one regardless of circumstances. But the climate of our nation has been one of fear, frustration, disappointment, anger, and dissent for so long that hope had become little more than a four-letter word. It was distant, unattainable, fading into the horizon.

Many things about today contribute to my feeling of hope: the fact that the man who now leads us is young and vital, a loving father and husband who seems in touch with the reality most of us accept as our own; that this one man had the courage to step up and speak out at a time when our nation most needed a clear, intelligent voice; that he sacrificed his private life for a cause much bigger--and more difficult--than any one person's endeavors. I think Barack Obama chose to seek the presidency not because he could, but because he felt he should.

But more than this, I am hopeful because we as a nation banded together and said Enough. We've had enough. And we did what we had to do to bring about the change necessary to right ourselves.

I believe most hatred and ugliness is born of fear, and the fear stems from ignorance. Racism has long divided our country, and to an extent, perhaps, it always will. But for this one brief moment, we robbed racism of its power and banished it. We chose hope and a belief in the power of the people over hatred and fear. We made an active decision to break through a long-standing paradigm of limitation based on tradition and an unwillingness to take a chance.

There is but a one-letter difference between "chance" and "change," and I think one relies on the other for existence. I truly believe we have the leader we need to guide us out of the mire we find ourselves trudging through. He is no savior, not a messiah. He is probably scared to death and will undoubtedly make mistakes. But my gut tells me his mistakes will have come from an attempt to do the right thing for the most people, to make the best of difficult choices and decisions. I see an integrity in this man I never was able to detect in his predecessor.

I will forever be proud to be able to tell my children that I helped bring Barack Obama to the White House. When he stumbles and falls--as we know he will--the fallout will be tempered by the spirit which permeates this day. We will remember the elation, the sheer relief, the unabashed triumph. We will remember why we put him in office.

This day belongs to us all, regardless of creed, political party, race, or any other factor that leads to division. Today is our day.

Today is a good day. And for me, it's doubly wonderful; my baby--the last of the tribe--turns 8 today. One look into Bella's dear face and I am reminded of the goodness and delight this life has to offer.

Life is good.

The Front Porch Returns

Happy New Year! I hope this column finds you in good spirits and even better health. It's been more than 6 months since I've posted a new column, and that's just not okay. Many of you have asked if I stopped writing The Front Porch. The answer is a resounding NO! I just got swamped with writing gigs that pay, so something had to go.

But we're back on the porch, and I hope you'll join us there. I'll publish my column bi-weekly, more if there's something I just can't let pass. I think 2 columns/month is doable, and I'm looking forward to getting back into the good and the bad of writing an opinion column.

There is one major change: I will no longer email you when I've posted a new column. Instead, you can sign up to be automatically alerted to new columns. It's easy.

To your immediate left is a "Subscribe" button. There is also a Subscribe link at the very bottom of this page. I don't know the difference between the two, but I figure one of them will suit your fancy. Click on the button/link, and you're done. That's all there is to it!

If you don't want to read The Front Porch any more, don't do a thing. You won't receive alerts. But if you do, be sure to subscribe, and forward the column to folks you think might find it interesting.

Now...enough with the technical stuff. My brain has been mulling over a few morsels:

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I turn 44 this Thursday! Yes, absolutely I'll have a drink with you. A big one, the kind that smells so good you want to take a bath in it. You think I'm kidding...you're funny.

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Someone told me last week that I am only the second Democrat he's ever liked. Does that say more about me or him?

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2008 clarified a few things for me:

1. I'm no fan of tornadoes.
2. I voted for Vazquez for mayor, but only because I thought he was less wrong for the job than the other guys. I have since changed my mind about him. As far as I'm concerned, the guy has proven his ability to lead effectively even under dire circumstances. He has my full support unless he starts to act like an idiot, and I don't see that happening.
3. I live in a town where folks sometimes over-react (I'm thinking about the MySpace "scandal" at the high school...could we have made a bigger deal of that if we tried?), but also where, when disaster strikes, residents pull together and reach out to help those in need. I spent the weeks immediately following the tornado with an overwhelming sense of pride in my community. Even now, that whole surreal event chokes me up and brings tears to my eyes.
4. Bruce Springsteen really IS the Boss.
5. The dark years for this country are fading into the shadows (for now...history does tend to repeat itself). Though we have a lot of clean-up to do, I believe we've proven we're up to the challenge. We placed more value on hope and the chance of better tomorrows than we did on experience and old-white-guyness in this last election, and I think that was the right call. Again, there's that sense of pride in my fellow man.

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And finally...

OBAMA WON!!!

Of Tootsie Rolls and Gray Hair

It's been two weeks to the day, nearly to the hour, since the tornado ripped through our town to the tune of hundreds of millions of dollars in damages. And that amount includes only those things upon which we can place a monetary value. It doesn't begin to address other losses we've incurred. For some of us, that loss is a sense of security. Our young kids are frightened. They can't sleep. They don't want to be too far from Mom or Dad. My own Bella, usually one of the most joyful kids you could imagine, is suddenly fixated with death and dying. She doesn't want to die, and the only thing I could say that finally brought her peace is that if it was time for her to go, the tornado would have taken her. Clearly, I told her, there's more in store for her. She thought about that, and her 7-year-old brain wrapped itself around the idea that life has purpose, and until she achieves that purpose, she's here for the duration. Good enough.

For others, that loss comes in the form of personal momentos that were swept up and scattered, never to be returned. How can we put a price on that lost family photo, the one where all the kids are wearing ornery expressions because they don't want to be sitting there in front of the camera? Or the one of a beloved parent, now long dead? Maybe the keepsake isn't a photo, but a hair ribbon. A love letter, perhaps.

Regardless of the extent of damage to our homes and businesses, all of us here in Windsor have lost something. As days pass and we reconnect with friends, make sure they're okay, offer assistance, those of us who do not live in the disaster zone can temper our loss with the idea that we're luckier than many. And there is truth in that. But while we're feeling grateful, I think it's imperative to recognize that the fact that we still have our houses, our belongings, our families, doesn't dis-count the other fact: Our lives were turned upside down on May 22, and it will take time to recover.

This became crystal clear to me when I was in the check-out lane at King Soopers last week. The cashier asked how I was, and without giving it a thought, I replied, "Well, it's a good day when foot-long Tootsie Rolls are on sale and there are no tornadoes." Then I simply stared at her, amazed that such a sentence even formed itself in my brain. "Wow," I said. "Have my standards lowered!" And we laughed, but the humor didn't hide what was left unsaid: What I once took for granted was no longer a given.

I'm disorganized, easily flustered, incredibly forgetful. I'll open my mouth to say something and before the words come out, the thought has left me. I don't like this at all. But I also know I'm not alone in my stumbling, fumbling days. Many of my friends are experiencing the same thing. There's a sense of disconnect, and when we try to focus on something, our thoughts drift. It's an odd feeling to have that happen, especially if you're usually an organized, get-it-done type of person.

And many, many of us are dealing with our insurance companies, making appointments, getting estimates...our days are really interrupted and disjointed. And even when the insurance company comes through and helps us rebuild and repair, it's stressful. I am not exaggerating in any way when I say that I've had more gray hair appear on my head in the last 2 weeks than ever before. I wake up each morning, and there they are, a few more strands. I had my hair pulled back last week, and Tucker thought it was awesome. "Woah, Mom! You have, like, Wolverine gray hair!" For your viewing pleasure, I've posted an illustration of Wolverine so you can see what Tuck means. See those black wingy things? Imagine them gray, and that's what Tuck thinks I look like. Now, he's also the kid who asked me if I was going through a midlife crisis last year when I bought a pair of white sneakers with little silver-sequined stars on the outside of them, so maybe he isn't the best judge. But take it for what it's worth. Now I'm an X-Man in midlife crisis. (And for the record, I bought those shoes because they were cheap.)

At any rate, we plug away with each day, hopefully feeling a sense of normalcy gradually replace this murkiness. I really just wanted to reach out and let people know that we should feel grateful, yes. But we should also allow ourselves time to feel sad. We all lost something two weeks ago. Big or small, major or minor, we lost.

So whatever it takes...sale-priced Tootsie Rolls or a day of sunshine (remember sunshine?)...find your joy where you can.

Tornado tore out our buildings, trees, but not our hearts

We take photo after photo, intent on capturing the extent of the damage wrought upon our community by a tornado that chose Windsor as its rest stop. We want to remember as intensely as we’d like to forget. And somewhere in between those two desires is the reality of life here, from this point on.

But photos capture only images, expressions. They show us what’s gone, what’s ruined, what’s forever changed. But they can’t show what I’ve seen here these past four days, since power went out around 11:47 a.m. on a day no one here will ever forget.

They can’t show you our spirit.

Sixteen thousand people live in Windsor, a community that in recent years has been experiencing growing pains as it evolves from being a rural region to one that is home to industry and energy resources. I’ve felt exasperation at some of the choices my town has made as it struggles to decide who it wants to be. I have never held back on calling the shots as I see them.

But what I’ve seen since Thursday’s tornado wreaked its havoc to the tune of tens (hundreds?) of millions of dollars in damage is like nothing I’ve ever been a part of. Past frustrations aside, I am proud to call Windsor home, and I’m proud of the people who live next door to me, down the street, across town.

The F3/F4 tornado and its accompanying hail damaged more properties than I know. It stole the homes of hundreds of people, leaving them with little to nothing. It killed beloved pets as well as one war veteran who tried to outrun the funnel in what would be a valiant last stand. It has forever changed the lives of every citizen, some more than others. But unlike the homes and businesses, the historic buildings and century-old trees, it hasn’t torn us apart. If anything, this disaster has brought out the best in my little community.

The response to this sudden emergency has been nothing short of phenomenal. The volunteer emergency response teams from all over the region have dropped their own lives to help us get on with ours. The National Guard, the governor, Xcel Energy…they have reacted with such clarity of purpose and commitment that I couldn’t be more impressed.

And then there are the local businesses and organizations. Our recreation department was turned into a command center, and I have never seen the likes of such dedication. “Whatever you need, you come to your rec department and we will help you,” the director promised. So great was the turnout for individual volunteers that by noon that day, they had all the volunteers they could use at that point. Our police and fire departments have answered the call of duty and worked 24/7 to help Windsor remain safe in what has turned out to be a most vulnerable time. Loodles, a newly established coffee shop, provided free coffee to everyone all day, for days on end. Our local 7-11 distributed milk, water, bread and other staples free of charge. And if you didn’t have them in hand as you walked out the door, the employees encouraged you to take some. If you already had some, they told you to take more. I’m sure there were other instances of goodwill throughout town that I don’t even know about.

With each passing day, Windsor gets a little cleaner. People smile a little easier (though I’m sure we will remain paranoid over every little storm for months to come). A drive down Garden Drive, Cornerstone Drive, or Hwy. 257 shows you what these people are made of as neighbors help neighbors, strangers help strangers, and everyone shares a common goal: To pick up the pieces of the past so that we can move forward into the future.

I’ve driven down the “disaster area” streets several times. The devastation is mind boggling. My entire body is sore from struggling against the 130+-mph winds as I collected my children from the storm. Mentally and physically, I’m exhausted. Drained. And I’m one of the luckier ones. Throughout this ordeal, I managed to remain composed and focused, in “mom mode,” as my siblings call it. But all composure crumbled as I slowly took in the sights along Hwy. 257. I saw houses one couldn’t really describe as “standing” any longer. Overturned pickup trucks, demolished businesses. I would liken it to images I’ve seen of war zones.

But what finally broke through my stoicism was the sight of a woman and her family, standing in what I assumed was once her kitchen. There were no outside walls, only the crumbled ruins of inner walls and rooms. And as twilight fell upon the outskirts of this shattered town, this woman was rummaging through her cupboards, trying to salvage what little might be left inside. My heart just ached for her. Our immediate world had fallen apart in less than fifteen minutes, but here was someone finding purpose in the simple act of finding…what? A frying pan, maybe? A colander? A bag of rice? It seemed absurd and totally logical at the same time. Though I didn’t know her, for that instant, I loved this woman, just for doing the best she could for her family at a time when they most needed her to be strong.

Windsor will slowly rebuild. Our streets will no longer be lovingly cradled by the old trees that link us to our past, but they will still take us from here to there. We will forever be reminded of an event we’d rather forget as we take those streets through town and say “Remember when the flour mill stood there?” or any number of similar remarks. We can never go back to the way we once were.

But if what I’ve seen happen here is any indication of the way we are now, we’re headed in the right direction.

Please feel free to post your comments here...share this blog with others who went through this experience. Some days, it's enough just to be reminded that you're not alone.

That last column I wrote generated quite a strong response, mostly from women who either a) confessed to having their own love-of-their-life-but-can't-live-with-him stories, or b) wondered how I could admit that I wasn't with the love of my life any longer while at the same time be linked to someone else. Some people--yes, even men--emailed or stopped me in town to explain how my story brought tears to their eyes, gave them goosebumps.

I had no idea.

I mean, you live the majority of your life protecting your heart because you simply don't have it in you to offer yourself 100 percent any longer, and you tend to think it's a secret, an experience no one else shares. But there are so many who are on that same journey, albeit via different roads. If it's true that for every one person who takes the time to speak up there are seven who feel the same way but remain silent, then ours is a society of walking wounded. Every town--each individual neighborhood--is a microcosm of a global population whose hearts get broken to one degree or another, sometimes repeatedly, and yet who find reasons to get up each morning and start the day anew.

Since several people have asked me how the situation in my last column was resolved, I'll explain here briefly. Jamie was indeed in charge of the company whose platoon was involved in the ambush back in March. However, since only 30 soldiers were out on a mission, he did not accompany them, but stayed back at camp, per procedural policy. So while he was not involved in the actual incident, he was held accountable as a senior enlisted in charge.

Although the details are many, the end result is that he was relieved of duty. And since he technically retires in December, he will simply go on "permanent leave" in August and that will be the end of a life-long military career. Did his men do what the media has accused them of doing? I asked him that. He unequivocally denied that his men willy-nilly slaughtered innocent people. To explain how he knows this, he likened his role in the company to that of parent. When your kids lie, you know it. They don't look at you, they fidget, they struggle to answer your questions. His men returned from the ambush and recounted what went down, and with the exception of details relating to where the soldiers physically were in the attack, the stories were the same. He believed them; I believe him. "I trained those men, Beck. The average age in my company is 28, with more than 2 years of battle experience. I would not train my men to do what we've been accused of."

That's all I needed to hear. He's disillusioned with the military, left feeling betrayed by the silence of the higher-ups in the chain of command. But his relief at being out, finally, was palpable. I'm happy for him, and I don't think I could piece together any selection of words that would convey my own feelings of relief. Life for my old friend/lover/protector is beginning again at the age of 42. More power to him.
***************
On a lighter note, the Windsor Weed Nazi has visited us again and issued another citation. Despite the fact that we have been out pulling weeds while MANY of our neighbors have not, we are yet again the ones to be cited. So we pulled those weeds (fewer than we've ever had in any previous summer). And then I went through the neighborhood, along Stone Mountain Drive, taking photos of all the properties that actually HAVE serious weed issues. There's one property right across from Skyview Elementary that has weeds almost as high as the privacy fence. I'm talkin' weeds so big and bountiful they could almost be classified as bushes. Yet no one has pulled them.

I took my photos and enclosed them with a letter requesting that the weed watchers get off my back if they're not going to go after other property owners with the same level of concern and dedication. I used those photos as evidence to back up my claim that I think I'm receiving special attention...my weeds haven't been nearly as nasty as some other properties along Stone Mountain. I think they just love me there at Town Hall.
****************
On the other hand...my two dogs have been escape artists this summer. We have construction going on at the house, and these two Houdinis have found some remarkable means of escaping over, under, through fences. The animal control lady (Vicki) has been ever so kind and understanding. Really, she's been a gem. Granted, both Scout and Oliver have their registration tags, ID tags, rabies tags...they're not dangerous dogs by any stretch of the imagination. And they aren't getting out because of neglect. But I think we've used up our chances, so until the addition to our house is complete, I've got the evil eye on them. I swear these two actually commiserate about the most effective strategy for escaping...I've come outside to find them standing in front of that fence wearing expressions of great concentration. I know they're dogs, I know. But something is going on between them...telepathy or sign language or whatever. All I know is, I'm wishing I had a cat about now.
****************
I officially turned old earlier this week when a routine eye exam resulted in my needing to buy bifocals. Yes, you read that right. Bifocals. My eyeglasses prescription has always been very minimal, and even that was only for the left eye. Now, at 42, I suddenly need bifocals? This is just wrong. And guess what happened while I was at my eye exam? THE DOGS ESCAPED. This, even though I made it a point to call home and warn my kids not to let the creatures out without supervision. I was not a happy mom that day. Old, yes. Happy, no.
****************
I was outside this morning, watering my little evergreen trees, when I noticed my friend and neighbor walking toward me. Usually, she's one of those upbeat people whose inner light just shines. She's always got a smile, a "hello." This morning she looked drawn, weary, beaten.

By the time she got to where I was standing in my yard, I had learned through her tears and her quiet, unstoppable hiccups of breath that her eldest son (who is 50) was found dead in his home, apparently of a heart attack. I dropped my hose and hugged my friend, whose sadness and grief I absorbed. In an instant, I was back to November 4, 2004, sitting at the kitchen table as my sister informed me that our mother was found in her home, cold, not breathing. She couldn't bring herself to utter the word "dead." All those emotions--along with the knowledge that this was one of those before-and-after events that would forever mark my life--ripped through me like they happened yesterday. And as I held my friend, I cried. I imagine we were a sight there in my front yard...I repeatedly apologized to her: for her immediate loss, yes, but also for the dark, merciless grief I know she will have to endure in the days, weeks, months to come.

The thing is, we expect to have to let go of our parents; that's the course of nature, right? But a parent burying a child--even an adult child--that's not in keeping with our idea of how things are supposed to go down. It's wrong, no matter how you look at it. It's wrong.

I crossed the street to offer my friend's husband my condolences. I like this guy. A lot. He's one of those older retired guys who doesn't seem to get that retirement means chilling out, taking it easy. He sweeps his driveway! He and his wife have been caring for 2 of their great-grandchildren this summer. They're amazing people. Good people. The kind you would handpick for neighbors if you had the choice.

So when I get to his side of the street, I tell him how sorry I am, and I hug him. And that hug just about kills me because in it I can feel him slump into me as he quietly repeats himself, "My son, my son." And despite my most diligent efforts, I hear myself crying with him, and really this intense sorrow is just debilitating. I love these people; they're suffering is unbearable. I wish I could ease their pain, but I know what lies in store for them as they make the long drive to their son's out-of-state home. I remember my own very long trek across the country to Pennsylvania, where Mom lived. It seemed it would never end, and so much of that time I felt absolutely numb. And now my friends--these dear people--must bury their firstborn.

So, I come here--to you--to write. To tell you about these things, these details that make up life: weeds, dogs, death, aging, relief, betrayal, disappointment, love, loss, letting go, comfort. Everyday life is so messy. It requires so much of us on so many levels.

But it's what we've got. And the measure of our success, really, lies in how we deal with it.

What Is Faith?

I find myself thinking about faith a lot lately. I believe this is partly due to some of the books I've been reading: "If God Is Love," "Grace (Eventually)," "Eat, Pray, Love," and even a couple novels in which faith is one of the themes. Perhaps my thoughts are influenced by the blossoming trees and flowers that have so suddenly decorated my life. I literally have watched the trees and lilac bushes in my backyard (where I sit as I type this) go from bare to blooming within three days. Amazing.

What does faith mean to you?

I once thought of faith solely in terms of God and religion and spirituality. That sphere only begins to encompass what faith means to me as I live out my fifth decade of life. At 42, my thoughts on faith, my idea of what it is and what it is not, are far different than what they were at 22, even 32. The concept once seemed so abstract, and as I studied existentialism in college, it almost seemed obsolete.

But then life happened--and continues to happen--and faith moves closer to the center of my world (right there with all these kids of mine) with each event, big or small.

I suppose I think about faith more these days, too, because Mother's Day is around the corner and I don't have a mom to call or send presents to. That makes me sad. I suppose it always will. But I came to the place--quite unexpectedly and utterly without direction or determination--where I can just say, without emotion or even a sense of wanting things to be different--that she is where she is supposed to be. It is that simple if I allow it to be.

And that, at 42, is what faith means to me: It is allowing whatever is, to remain what it is, without needing to dissect or deconstruct. That sort of non-analysis is not easy for me; I am a student of philosophy. Analyzing and digging in to the core is what I do. And that's the craziest part of all: In order to realize (or recognize) that faith is really quite simple, I chose a path that was complex and elaborate, full of unexpected twists and turns. I did this passively at times. Other times, my brain moved furiously in my quest for understanding. But it really isn't about understanding; it's about acceptance.

For me, faith is really nothing more than the belief that what is at any given moment is exactly what is supposed to be, whether I like it or not. That isn't to say I shouldn't try to right a wrong, seek improvement, or work for change. I absolutely should and will continue to do those things. But it really isn't up to me. My faith assures me that my kids chose the right parents. That marrying Dean wasn't a mistake, and neither was divorcing him. That Mom was slated to leave this world abruptly and without warning, as was my son. That the inadequacy I feel so often as a parent these days will one day be replaced with satisfaction. Faith has me believing that everything--and I mean everything--in my life is there because it serves a purpose. And it's up to me to determine what that purpose is.

I don't think faith is stagnant, but rather, it is always evolving, flexing its various muscles according to the circumstances at hand. Some days, I'm pretty strong in my faith. Others, well...on those days, the best I can hope for is to catch a rerun of "Northern Exposure" and apply whatever random message it may impart to the situation at hand. It's not rocket science. But it doesn't need to be.

Faith, I think, is an art. And like any other artistic endeavor, the more you practice, the easier it comes.

Of Football and Town Managers

I didn't get a column written last week. It was a deadline week for me for a couple projects, and on those weeks I usually don't have any free time at the computer. And we got another dog, so that certainly added to the chaos.

We rescued Scout (named after the narrator of my favorite book, "To Kill a Mockingbird"), an 8-month-old yellow lab female from a shelter in Greeley. It took no time--and I mean no time--for her and Oliver to become instant pals. We couldn't ask for a better companion, and if you've got one dog, getting another really isn't a big deal. Kind of like children. For me, the difference between having one and two was no biggie; the difference between two and three was huge. By the time number four appeared, there just wasn't anything left to say.

Today the kids are home from school, so things will get noisy here as soon as the boys awaken (around 11:30 or so). I've been thinking about a couple things in particular lately:

What's with the mystery surrounding the hiring of a new high school football coach? Who decided this is how the recruitment should be conducted, and does that person not realize that there is already such a high level of distrust between the school board and the community? This secrecy isn't helping matters. I get that maybe the hiring committee doesn't want to have to deal with pushy parents who want more control and say than they should have, so they're keeping dealings on the lowdown. But if that's the case, why couldn't they just say, "Hey, this is our job, not yours. This is football. Just a game. Let us do our job."

And how about that letter to the editor in the Tribune earlier this week, the one by Mary Koehler, who voiced her concerns over interim town manager Kelly Arnold? Arnold is one of three finalists in the running for our town manager, and Koehler wrote a letter about the circumstances under which he left his last job, which was city manager of Grand Junction. The Tribune published the letter, but then wasted a lot of space chiding Koehler for her "speculation."

But the facts as I read them in the Grand Junction paper were that Arnold knew the fire chief (a guy named Beaty) was using and selling narcotics. And he did nothing about it except to place him on PAID leave, and even that didn't happen until months after a formal DEA investigation of Beaty was completed. The city attorney reported that he went to Arnold with the chief's confession on tape and the suggestion to fire Beaty. Arnold claimed he never knew of any DEA investigation, nor did he listen to a confession, nor did anyone ever suggest he fire Beaty. He never even requested Beaty take a drug test.

He also claimed the scandal had nothing to do with his resignation, but the timing, then, is a bit curious. The DEA investigation was completed in September; city officials didn't ask for the results until December. Beaty announced his resignation in late March, and Arnold said that was when he was "planning" to conduct a formal review of the situation. Beaty officially left the department on May 1, but Arnold saw that he got paid until that date.

Add to that the fact that the police chief quit months before Arnold resigned, and when the manager's resignation was made public, the police chief publicly stated had he known Arnold was going to step down, he would have stayed. A reporter in GJ told me some people saw Arnold as an empire builder, unapproachable from a public standpoint. I haven't talked with Arnold personally...I have no feel for him one way or the other, but I know what I've read. I did search for other articles about him online, something that would shine a positive light on him. Couldn't find anything. So...is it speculation that he left GJ under difficult circumstances? Nope. It's fact.

And what I've read of and been told about the situation raises some questions in my mind. How can the city attorney and Arnold have directly opposing claims as to how events unfolded? Why were there so many disgruntled people in GJ under Arnold's watch, and why was his staff (according to our Tribune) "dysfunctional at best" in the end? Why, in the face of evidence beyond a shadow of a doubt, didn't Arnold get rid of Beaty? Shortly after the town board hired Arnold as our interim manager, I contacted a member to ask if they knew about the controversy leading up to his resignation, and the anwswer was "what controversy are you specifically talking about?" The member assured me that references were checked, but no one in his right mind is going to list a reference if that person isn't absolutely certain to give a positive response.

So then I did a little research on the consulting firm that Windsor's town board worked with to find a town manager. And what do you know? The same firm Windsor worked with to find a candidate also worked with Grand Junction to replace Kelly Arnold. How convenient was that? Could that be why this information about Arnold wasn't shared with our board? (And yes, this IS speculation, but I'm entitled to it.) I'd have a hard time believing the consultants were unaware of the situation in Grand Junction.

I can't speak for anyone else, but this sort of murkiness doesn't sit well with me.

For those interested, here's Koehler's letter:
Take a closer look at manager candidates
This past weekend my husband and I visited friends in Grand Junction. I mentioned to them that Windsor’s current interim city manager had formerly been the city manager of Grand Junction.
Our friends were of course familiar with the name Kelly Arnold. They also shared some information that I believe the residents of Windsor would be interested in knowing.
All of this was “public” knowledge to the residents of Grand Junction, for it was printed in the Grand Junction Sentinel in May 2006 and again in December 2006.
During Mr. Arnold’s time as town manager three key people resigned: The police chief, the community developer and the fire chief. The fire chief had been under investigation for using and distributing hallucinogenic drugs.
The terms Mr. Arnold left Grand Junction under appear to me to be questionable. Mr.
Arnold has led residents to believe he was “just re­evaluating his career and future” when he himself resigned from the town manager position in Grand Junction. Maybe he was, but there may be more to it.
I am disappointed that the local papers have not done investigative reporting on this matter. Windsor residents deserve to be informed about events that affect their town and its future.
The town of Windsor has narrowed the candidates for the new town manager. Kelly Arnold is one of the final three. As a taxpayer and registered voter, I do not support the consideration of Mr. Arnold.
Concerned in Windsor, MARY KOEHLER

And here's the Trib's opinion:
TRIBUNE OPINION
Get the news, not the gossip
Stories about town manager candidate mostly speculation

One of the main jobs of a newspaper is to decide what is and what is not news.
When the Windsor Tribune first learned current Windsor interim town manager Kelly Arnold’s last year as Grand Junction city manager was a struggle, we looked into allegations that he could not manage the town of roughly 60,000.
What we found was a city manager at the end of his rope due in part to a city council that couldn’t get along with one another and a staff that had become dysfunctional — at best.
What we didn’t find was that Arnold was to blame for anything.
The police chief resigned because he didn’t like Arnold.
The community development director resigned for no real clear reason.
And the fire chief retired amid an investigation he’d been using and selling hallucinogenic drugs and Ecstasy.
It’s not uncommon for employees to quit because they don’t get along with their boss. It happens in every industry. If we reported on that every time it happened, there would be no space in the paper left for anything else.
In a June 22 column in the Grand Junction Free Press, current Grand Junction City Council member Jim Spehar said Bob Blanchard’s departure as community development director was nothing new to the city.
“His five-year tenure surpassed the total for several of his immediate predecessors,” Spehar wrote.
As for the fire chief, Arnold can’t be blamed for the criminal decisions made by others. The fact that Arnold didn’t act on it in the time frames some wanted doesn’t point to wrongdoing.
A May 21 editorial that ran in the Grand Junction Daily Sentinel said it best about where the problem really seemed to lie: “A city manger’s job is one of the most damnable occupations, period,” the editorial said. “And reporting to the seven different personalities and preening egos that made up what has appeared fairly routinely over the past two years to be a fundamentally dysfunctional Grand Junction City Council had to be beyond Arnold or any other sane person’s capacity to endure.”
The average term for a town or city manager is roughly six years. Arnold’s tenure in Grand Junction was nearing that.
The city council was accustomed to 4-3 votes on the measures that came before them. With that, Arnold quickly lost the ability to deliver any measure of predictability to his staff.
In its editorial, the Sentinel also said it believed “Arnold was being pilloried for not shepherding (Fire Chief Rick) Beaty to an exit door at least three months earlier than when Beaty announced his own departure.”
Everything that surrounded Arnold’s final year in Grand Junction was speculation.
Creating a story out of speculation is not what this newspaper is about.
We came to the conclusion after countless interviews with Arnold, people in Grand Junction closely connected to the case and the Windsor Town Board that there was no story to be written.
However, a letter to the editor in today’s paper chose to point out that speculation without basis or fact.
The facts are: Three people resigned or retired under Arnold’s watch. The City Council in Grand Junction never asked Arnold to resign. In fact, Spehar also wrote in his column that Arnold left some big shoes to fill. He pointed to Arnold’s ability to solve problems between the Chamber of Commerce, the town and developers.
“Kelly provided a fresh set of eyes and ears and a different attitude that bridged many gaps and aided in resolving that particular conflict to the extent that it could ever be fully resolved,” Spehar said.
We firmly believe Arnold has been honest with the Windsor Town Board, the consultant hired to narrow the field of applicants and himself on the matter — since long before he was hired to act as interim town manager.
We also believe Arnold has the wherewithal to lead Windsor into the next decade and further if it comes to that.
We trust that our elected officials will do what is best for the town in their selection of a candidate. And following that announcement we will support whatever decision they make.
We urge Windsor residents to do the same and not let speculation and hearsay guide you through life.

Home again, home again, jiggity jig

After running into the aftermath of a snowstorm in Arizona, we made it home from our vacation to California, where we enjoyed three days of Disneyland and California Adventures and one very windy day at Newport Beach.

I never thought I'd do the Disney thing; I'm no fan of amusement parks per se. I hate crowds. But the kids have wanted to go for years, and they've been saving a portion of every allowance for as long. After conducting some preliminary research, I realized it was now or never. With Max at 14 and Bella at 6, the age spread of the kids was perfect. And the price was right. Our family of six enjoyed five days in California plus a spontaneous day trip to the Grand Canyon (which set us back a day a required an unforeseen hotel stay) for $2800. This is an amazing price when you consider the cost of gas right now and the cost of food along the road.

The Grand Canyon--words can't describe it. But I feel the same about the part of Utah (see photo above) I saw from I-70. I never imagined that state was so scenic. We watched the sun rise there, and as I wiped the sleep from my eyes, I smiled to myself to imagine that the rocks formations I was enjoying were once the hideout of late-nineteenth century outlaws, including Butch Cassidy.

You don't go on vacation with Bella without having what I call "episodes." These episodes vary in nature: perhaps it's something she says, often it's something she does. This time, it was both. Outside the entrance to Disneyland's adjacent theme park, California Adventures, the word "California" is spelled out in separate-standing letters. As we approached the entrance, Bella began yelling, "People are climbing through the A-hole! I want to go through the A-hole!"

Why is it my child is prone to pick the most inappropriate of any choice? Why didn't the hole in the letter "O" interest her, or the one in the "R"? Why did the "A" hole appeal to her so profoundly? And why oh why did she have to scream it out loud? At least she gave those park-goers around us a good chuckle. And I, of course, had to snap a photo of Bella in her beloved "A"-hole.

Not all families can take road trips...kids are too young to travel, they're at stages where they fight too much, they can't be in a vehicle together for extended periods of time. I get this. And knowing this makes my cherished family vacations all the more valuable to me. Sure, the kids argue, we threaten that the next vacation we'll take will be without them (they scoff and know it's all bluster), we wish everyone could coordinate their bathroom needs. But overall, I think the best way to travel is to drive. Make the journey as much a part of the trip as the destination. In the end, it brings the family closer together because there is no escape from conflict; you deal or you sulk. And if you sulk, you lose out.

I've spent this first week home battling (unsuccessfully) some sort of viral infection. I'm too tired to write more, so I leave you with this photo montage and the sincere hope that you, too, are able to work in family vacations here and there. You don't have to have a large disposable income. You just have to be able to tune out. And you must really, really love your kids.
















Really.

Really.

Really.

Ahh, the Sweet Sound of...Newspaper

One of my fondest memories from the early days of my marriage is Sunday mornings. My husband and I would make a pot of coffee and settle in to read the Sunday paper. With no distraction save a cat kneading our laps to make a bed, we could enjoy a leisurely hour or two reading and talking, debating and commisserating.

Then we had kids. Sunday mornings were no longer leisurely. Then we divorced, and Sunday mornings pretty much ceased to exist except in terms of time. Until noon on Sunday, it was Sunday morning. And I was the only adult on the scene, so sipping hot coffee and reading quickly became a thing of the past. Which was probably all for the best, because I could no longer afford a subscription to the Sunday paper. My ex took the car and closed our joint checking account; my thoughts were always focused on how to get by. Reading book reviews and the op-ed section was but a fond and (seemingly) distant memory.

Then Tavi came along and Wes joined the scene. So there was that addition of an adult, but still...we had 3 kids, ages 5, 2, and brand new. Not much changed in the way of leisure time. Add Bella to the mix and, well, you see where this is going.

This Sunday morning I was the first to awaken, which is unusual in itself. The girls are early risers and usually are up at the butt crack of dawn. They amuse themselves with books, puzzles, drawing...any quiet activity that won't result in a trip to the emergency room. But on this particular Sunday, I got up, let the dog out, made coffee, and sat down with a book. Soon Wes came downstairs, followed quickly by the girls. The boys were spending the weekend at their dad's, and they rarely get up before 10 a.m. unless I make them anyway.

But there we all sat in the family room, talking in the hushed tones people tend to use when the day is just getting started and eyes are still filled with what we in this household refer to as "eye boogers." Wes retrieved the newspaper from the porch, and we each claimed our favorite sections.

And there we sat, the silence broken only by an occasional giggle from Tavi, who had one section of comics, or from Bella, asking what a particular word was (also in the comics). At six, she has just started reading independently, and I don't know who's more excited about this milestone, she or I.

And as we sat together on that Sunday morning, I listened to the sound of turning newspaper pages and realized time had given back my beloved ritual. The husband is now an ex, and the cats have been replaced by a dog. I'm about 14 years older than I was last time I enjoyed the paper, but hey! Time is just time, right? I've lamented the loss of reading the Sunday paper many, many times over the years. Sometimes I even felt resentment that I wasn't allowed to enjoy this mundane but cherished activity.

But on this Sunday morning, there was no resentment or longing, only gratitude. And it's a gratitude made all the more intense for having lost the opportunity for all those years while my kids needed immediate and constant attention. Now they sit with me and read. And that reading leads to questions and an increased curiosity of the world around them. They drink tea and hot cider while I languish over my coffee. It is, for me, my own personal Norman Rockwell scene. Sure, it will end as soon as something else grabs their attention.

But for that brief moment in time, all is right with the world on a Sunday morning.

Calling All Teachers, Retired or Otherwise

Just want to let everyone know that Borders Bookstore is giving 25% off purchases for retired, current, full-time, part-time, even only-kind-of educators from March 21-27.

Not all merchandise qualifies, but most does. I do only volunteer work in the schools, and they give me the discount. So now's the time to stock up on those books you're wanting to read but know you can't finish in the time the library lends them to you!

There's Much to Learn from "Romeo & Juliet"

Max is reading "Romeo & Juliet" in his freshman English class. He's pretty tired of the story, since this is something like the fifty-sixth time he's had to read it for school. But he came home with an assignment I thought was interesting. He had to list traits he would look for in a partner (lover just sounds too creepy for ninth grade). Without looking at what he wrote, I had to do the same. Then I had to make a list of traits I would want his partner to have.

Max isn't too demanding: he wants someone who is "smart" and "funny." "Other than that," he wrote, "it doesn't really matter." I included those two traits in the list I made of what I believed was important for him to find in someone as well.

His list for what he anticipated I would choose as important included "being poor." "What does that mean?" I asked. "Well you always say that money can't buy happiness, so I figured you'd want me to find someone poor!" he explained. I thought about that for a minute and chuckled.

He's right; I do always say that. Speaking as someone who once had to sell a sizeable portion of her beloved CD collection in order to give her young boys a few presents for Christmas, I know what it's like to be poor, though certainly not destitute. I know what it's like to worry about how I'd pay the bills. I remember having to choose between feeding my kids and paying an ever-growing credit card bill on time. I've never been comfortable asking for help, so reaching out for assistance during those lean times wasn't something I'd considered.

My life today is different. Though not monetarily wealthy by any stretch, I have built a business which allows me to be comfortable. I can pay school sports fees, buy my kids necessities and even a few extras here and there. I live in a home for which I am able to pay monthly utility bills. I am satisfied with what I have and don't feel as if I'm missing out on anything, even though I can't spend money freely or without thought. I still have to budget.

But Max sees things differently. He can't understand why I'm happy being middle class. He says I shouldn't "settle" when the possibility of having more is within my reach. I get frustrated with this discussion, but recently I realized he has this point of view quite possibly because he doesn't have anything against which to measure his lifestyle. He was too young to realize I sold beloved collections of various things to assure his survival and security. Max has never known true fear. He can't imagine not living in a decent home that always welcomes him. He's never gone hungry, and he can't fathom going without so that someone he loves won't have to.

I constantly hear how every other kid he knows doesn't have to help out around the house, never loses privileges, and gets handed money whenever he needs it. I don't (can't) buy each of my kids an MP3 player (Max bought one with his own money, which he received as gifts for his birthday), and wouldn't even if I could. They don't live in a home with luxuries, but I've been hard-pressed enough to recognize that having money to pay my bills and buy enough groceries is a luxury, especially in these days of economic struggle. So while Max considers me less than successful, I am completely content with where my life has brought me. Do I ever want for something I can't have? You bet. But there is much to be said for having something to wish for. And maybe because I've known struggling to get by, I'm happy with what I have.

This is one area my teenage son and I might never agree on; certainly we won't until he's had to hoe his own row. I did suggest that if he thinks his life at home is so unfair, he ought to emancipate himself. That comment was met with an incredulous, horrified expression. "I don't WANT to emancipate myself! I just don't want to have to spend time with the family. I don't want to have to eat dinner with all of you. I want to do what I want, when I want. I've even tried to act really nasty so that you don't want me around, but then all you do is ground me!"

Again, I chuckled. "I know. It stinks to have a mom who actually cares about you and wants to know what's going on in your life, doesn't it?" I replied. "Yeah, it does," he grumbled.

And then I chuckled again. When Max handed me his assignment, he did so with the comment that he didn't know why his teacher always tries to make everything they do in class relevant to real life. " 'Romeo and Juliet' has nothing to do with my life," he insisted. And yet...consider the discussion that resulted from this homework.

We may have both ended up frustrated, but I think there's value in any discussion a parent can actually have with his/her son or daughter. If they're talking to us at all, we're doing something right.

Even if it's to hear how miserably disappointing we are.

Coulter's True Colors Shine Through, and WooHoo! Are They Ugly

Ann Coulter, the conservative mouthpiece and all-around darling, called John Edwards a faggot last week. In public. In front of lots of people. Even her fellow conservatives cringed. What will it take for them to realize the old gray mare, she ain't what she used to be?

Put me in a room with that foul woman, and I can't think of any issue on earth we couldn't disagree on. She is the epitome of all that I do not stand for. And yet, in the past, I was able to admire her ability to stand up for her beliefs and rally for those commitments she embraced.

My admiration has turned to disgust. Coulter has morphed from an intelligent, loud-mouthed conservative to a vengeful, trashy media whore. That woman will say anything--hurt anyone--solely for shock value. And it's getting old.

I suppose we were warned when she labeled Joe McCarthy a hero.

That comment merely reflected her own bias and narrow thinking. Her homophobic remark has a more serious far-reaching effect, though. Yeah, she made herself look small, ignorant, nasty. But given that she has been the conservative party's sharp-witted mouthpiece for years, her slur makes the whole gang look bad. Shallow. Hateful. That stereotype was already alive and kicking, but Coulter gave it a whole new lifespan.

I remember a college semantics course I attended, and one point I never forgot: The word is not the thing. Spin doctors, media, political speechwriters...they all depend on us common folk to subconciously label and categorize. We give meaning to symbols which otherwise would have none. That's why, for instance, some people are so hinky about flag burning. To me, the act of flag burning is nothing more than the burning of the flag, because no one can destroy what the flag means to me.

But these days, the word IS the thing. Words carry power beyond belief because we have imbued them with such. So for anyone to hurl such hate-filled, despicable slurs at another--especially in a public forum--is undeniably repulsive.

I'm glad Coulter isn't on my side...thing is, she isn't on anyone else's side, either. She's just a woman who fancies herself a political pundit, and she's overstayed her welcome.

I said They Were Awesome

Back in the summer of 2006, I wrote in "The Family Room," which was featured in the Windsor Trib, an editorial about Windsor Auto. I praised them for their amazing and beyond-the-norm customer service.

And boy, did I catch hell for it.

From Tom Fasano at the Trib, because some reader (who turned out to be a friend of the owner or something like that of Pike's Auto) complained that what I wrote was an "advertorial." What a joke. My column is an op-ed piece...I'm allowed to say what I think. I wrote that column to share with readers in town the fact that there is a place to go for capable and trustworthy car repair. And Fasano ran that piece without changing a word of it.

But he apparently couldn't take the heat, and that's when he demanded that I consult with him before writing my columns so that he could approve whatever topic I chose. Another joke.

Windsor Chamber of Commerce just awarded Windsor Auto the annual Outstanding Customer Service Award.

Need I say more?

Well, yeah, I need. I had my van in to Windsor Auto recently and they gave me one of those free loaner cars while the work was being done. I accidentally left my digital camera in the front seat of the car but didn't realize it until the shop was closed on a Wednesday night. That Wednesday just happened to be Tuck's birthday, and when I went to pull out the camera to photograph the event, I realized what I had done.

I called Windsor Auto and left a message that my camera was probably in car number 3 and asked them to please check before loaning it out to someone else. After hanging up, I got worried that they might not listen to the messages first thing in the morning, so I had the audacity to call Scott Crowe, one of the shop's owners, at home. I wasn't looking for anything other than to ask him to please check the car in the morning (I figured he went in early).

Instead of letting me sit at home and worry all night, Scott insisted he meet me at the shop in five minutes so that we could look for my camera together. As much as I hated imposing upon him, I took him up on his offer; I was really worried that I'd lost the camera. And equally worried that if I did leave it in the car, someone might take it.

Sure enough, the camera was in the front seat. My mind was put at ease, and I was able to take my annual birthday photo with Tucker. But I ask: How many business owners would go so far out of their way for a customer? Especially at night, especially when he's already in his pajamas? The answer is not many, and if that sort of treatment doesn't bring them business, I don't know what would.

And I'm thankful I can share this sort of thing with you and not have to answer to a pander-to-my-advertisers editor. Life is good!