take a step back

Were the truth really to be told - and I'm fairly certain no one close to the man will EVER admit it - I don't think you could find one single person (including the candidate himself) who thought he had a snowball's chance in hell to win the election. Perhaps his obsession with numbers is a cry for someone to wake him up out of this nightmare that is quickly turning into the not funny version of "Groundhog Day." I know. Wishful thinking. 

As Democrats or Independents or Third Party-ers - the ones who have the most to gain - we must stay ever vigilant to support the media in their efforts to ferret out the truth. Perhaps journalists should adopt the Harry Potter approach of "He Who Must Not Be Named" when it comes to the very over-used term, "fake news." Repeating that phrase only gives it more power - whether it be to a television audience or when asking a question at the White House. Could it be that the rabid spreading of this sad, childish taunt is playing directly into his tiny orange hands?

It's become clear that he craves the adulation of those who can't (or won't) see that he is still just a rich bully who has no trouble giving them what they want. Conversely, he doesn't give two shits about what his supporters need. really need.

The Republicans, who have much to lose, need to wake the hell up and right their already right leaning ship (😜) or their party could experience catastrophic atrophy, perhaps even death. I read recently that many representatives (maybe senators, too) are cancelling upcoming town hall meetings, ostensibly to avoid angry constituents.  Do they really think that will send a positive message or gain the respect/votes they need to stay in office? Rumor has it that our representatives in Washington were elected so that OUR voices can be heard. OUR values, OUR concerns, OUR livelihoods. It's been a pathetically long time since I've seen or heard my fellow Kansans in Washington put their money where their mouths are.

Actually,  it's not the political parties that stand to gain (or lose) the most.  It's US. You and me, and our neighbors and co-workers who should be at the forefront of the gain/lose equation.  And, based on my newsfeed on Facebook, there is no shortage of petitions to sign, rallies to attend. It can be overwhelming with all the things that are - apparently - about to disappear from our American bubble. I know that, for me, inaction just leads to an unhealthy daily dose of CNN and reading lots of articles from a variety of news outlets. I may feel more informed, but I'm not doing anything constructive with that information (unless you consider blasting facts and non-stop "can you believe this crap" stories at my family the second they step foot inside as constructive.  I assure you, they do not find it helpful OR endearing).

It has been only 29 days since the inauguration. It feels like three years. In the manic comedy of Cheri O'Teri, everyone needs to simmer down. Take the pot of lies, innuendos and unknowns off the front burner. I'm not saying the media doesn't need to stay vigilant. No, that's more important than ever. Everyone now has a clear understanding that the man lies. He lies about the lies. He lies about the lies he's lied about.

The numbers are important to only him. Everyone who's within shouting distance of a TV knows that he's prone (that's a very tepid evaluation, I know) to exaggeration. Let him play in the corner with his number fantasies. Journalists, get back to reporting substantive news. There are crises in the world that need media coverage. The small "I can't believe he just said that" stuff is detracting from issues that don't deserve to be covered in just the last few seconds of a newshour. The absurdities and minutiae are whipping us into a futile frenzy.  Ok. Maybe it's just me that's getting whipped. But I kind of doubt it.

I don't think anyone needs more evidence that he's a pathological liar. Quit giving them life by airing them.

No air, no life.

In the words of my second favorite president, Josiah Bartlet...what's next?

Is This Grief?

Ever since the election in November, I've been in a funk.  Not because my candidate didn't win.  I can honestly say that.  I'm funked out because people voted for what appears to be to a fundamentally terrible person.  I say "appears" because I've not met the man...my opinions are based on what has been paraded in front of me for the past eighteen months.

I cannot for the life of me understand how any intelligent, rational, concerned person could vote for this man after listening to the hate-filled, bigoted, misogynistic, false, racist, and just plain mean shit that has come out of his mouth. Help me understand.  Please.

I can appreciate peoples' aversion to Clinton.  I wasn't 100% thrilled with her either. But. There should have been a better (more consensus building, well-funded) candidate offered by the Democratic Party...or any other party.   I'd bet my life no one could have predicted the Trump phenomenon.  Still, we should have been given better choices.

But.  Here we are.

And I am angry.  Depressed.  Hopeless.  Sad.  Repulsed.  Wary.  Afraid.  Indignant.

Why?

Because we know better, people!  COME ON!  The media is trying to force-feed me a new "normal" that I refuse to accept.

NONE OF THIS IS NORMAL.

The tweeting.  The mocking.  The bullying.  The utter stupidity of things that are said with no filter and no understanding of why it's not okay to say those things. Does he know about The Golden Rule? It's gold, for Pete's sake.  Thought it might have caught his eye, given his love of all things Midas-ized.

I get that this guy is polarizing. It's kind of how democracy works...during an election.  But that part of the process is over.  He won.  He will be the next President.  So stop calling out people who have a right to express their opinions.  He has a very serious job ahead and it's mortifying that he spends so much time and energy on being a mean person.

As I've tried to become reconciled with this new regime I told myself that he'd surround himself with intelligent people who would give him sound, measured advice.  So far all I can tell is that most of his major appointees are very wealthy. When Rex Tillerson, the nominee for Secretary of State, was asked if he and Trump agree about a position on Russia, Tillerson said they hadn't discussed it?  Really?  Wow. Exactly what DID they talk about during their time together?  ANYTHING regarding expectations of what foreign policy might look like?

My gut tells me (supported by any number of sound bytes in which Trump uses every adjective ever created to feed his insatiable ego) is that he won't be able to resist bragging one too many times about the deals that he's turned down...at this point ANY business deals involving the Trump organization should not even be presented to him.  Period. Comments he made this week indicate that he thinks he is legally allowed to pretty much continue business as usual, with a few minor tweaks.  I'm guessing the laws regarding conflict of interest pertaining to the President of the United States are great in number and highly intricate.

Then there are the countless number of conflicting statements he's made and the outright lies he's told. Ok.  I know lots of people fudge the truth, or skew facts to present themselves in a better light.  Doesn't make it right, but it happens. However, it's a bit unnerving (bordering on ridiculous) when quote after quote after quote after quote is then compared to other quotes that directly contradict the first assertions.

I get a mental picture of two rows of gold plated china spinning on top of teetering poles.  One side is lies. The other side is conflicts of interest.  Trump is sitting in the middle, looking bored.  While Ivanka, Don, Eric, Jared and Kellyanne are frantically trying to keep all the plates spinning.  Next scene: splintered, gold plated china in piles.  Trump, still in the middle. Still bored.

"Give him a chance."  He says he can be presidential.  I'd be interested to hear him articulate what he thinks that means.

Better yet.  Do it.  Dammit, do it.

P.S. Last time I checked, America has elected a former actor as President, a former actor and professional body builder as Governor, a wrestler as Governor, a former SNL writer as Senator, and, most recently, the star of a reality television series and owner of a beauty pageant franchise as President...and, according to Wikipedia, there are quite a few more entertainment folk who have sought and/or served in government.  Which brings me to Meryl Streep's comments.  I didn't hear a strong political statement.  I heard a citizen who was dismayed by a public display of cruelty towards a fellow human being.  I heard a plea to acknowledge that negative actions do not build up, they destroy.  I heard a call for truth and accountability in reporting events in the world.  Above all, I heard an American - who happened to have a large platform - share the concerns of her heart.

Not unlike what I've just done.  But without the big platform. Or shelf full of gold statues.

Rules for Life

My mom gave me an article about a speech my dad gave at Missouri Valley College in Marshall, MO, sometime in the mid-seventies.  She asked me to reproduce it and as I sat typing I could hear my dad's best preacher voice telling folks about his guiding principles. I think about my most recent visit with mom and dad last weekend.  It wounds my soul to see my dad's health declining daily.  He is very nearly blind and his voice is weakening.  He fell again last week.  So when I read these words, I'm comforted with the knowledge that his life has been rich and full. And I'm so very grateful that I'm a part of it.  Note:  It's lengthy...but it won't take you the hour and a half it took the audience to listen to it!

STANDING OVATION FOR SPAINHOWER AT LECTURE
By Jeani Wilson

Jim Spainhower’s “Last Lecture” received a standing ovation last night.

The Missouri State Treasurer spoke for about an hour and a half and spent very little time speaking about politics.

Spainhower was the first speaker in this week’s Last Lecture Series being held at Missouri Valley College. Tonight’s speaker is Rev. Jerry Max, pastor of the Covenant Presbyterian Church. The speech is at 8 p.m.

There is much speculation around the state as to whether Spainhower will run for governor during the next election. He has announced that he will seek statewide office, but is leaving his options open until January to decide whether to run for the office of Governor or for re-election to the office of State Treasurer.

You would expect a man in his position to dwell on politics.

But he didn’t. This was his assignment. He was to assume the attitude that this would be the last opportunity he would have to say what are the most important insights he has into life.

Jim Spainhower’s insights are deeply religious. And, those insights spoke to his audience of townspeople and students.

After his speech, the audience of more than 50 stayed for quite a while in the College Center to talk to one another about the impact and importance of the ideas they had heard.

One student said, “I heard some very important things tonight. He told me things I needed to hear.”

It was evident that Spainhower said many things that his audience needed to hear.

Principles
He spoke about 11 basic principles by which he guides his life.  After assuring his audience that this was not really his last lecture, Spainhower said he intended to make many more speeches in his lifetime. “But, if this were to be my last lecture, I would point out to my audience that an important thing I have learned is that I should not take myself, my job or position in life too seriously.

“I would like to quote my favorite theologian, Red Skelton, who said, “You should never take life too seriously, because you are not going to get out of it alive anyway.”

He said that this is a lesson we all need to learn – that we are all going to die. Therefore, we should not take ourselves so seriously.

We should remember that the Bible says that a thousand years in God’s sight are but yesterday,” Spainhower said.

Knowing that gives us a better perspective in our own lives, he said.

His second guiding principle is that he has learned that he must take God very seriously.

“We must take His purposes for this world and for our own lives seriously,” Spainhower said.
He said in order to do that, we must know God and his natural order in this world. He said that he has learned much about God through the works of Plat, Aristotle, St. Thomas Aquinas and Paul Tillick.

“However, the best way of knowing God is to become an intimate of Jesus Christ,” he said. “In Jesus Christ we see how God would have us live.”

Prayer
Spainhower stressed the importance of prayer. He said more things are wrought by prayer than the world knows.

“Through prayer we come to know God. Then we receive the strength from Him to do what we must do in this life,” he said.

He went on to say that to know God is to become his partner.

“God is working through us to make his purposes known on this earth,” Spainhower said.

His third guiding principle is that we should hold people in appropriate awe. “We human beings are created from the image of God. We should remember than and try to live that way,” he said.

Other principles he noted are:
Four – Respect for common sense. He said that although he has obtained his doctorate in political science, he is not much of an academic.

“I have greater respect for good, old common horse sense. Sometimes I think it is a gift from God,” Spainhower said.

Five – The towering importance of a sense of humor. He said that if we humans are unable to laugh, then there is something tragically wrong with us.

Six – Primacy of one’s family. When two people marry, they become as one.

“People should have the proper respect for each other in a family and have respect for the love they have for one another,” he said.

Seven – The necessary participation in the institution of religion. He said it is important that each person have a religious faith. That faith cannot find its fullest expression outside participation in a church. You can be religious without being involved in a church, he said. However, your faith will be stronger if you are involved in an active participation of that faith.

“Religion cannot be preserved from generation to generation without the institution of a church. The work of the Church is basic to a sound society. We receive our basic ideas about God, love, marriage, ethics and our fellow man through the Church,” he said.

Eight – The social need for personal political participation.

“Most people think that is doesn’t matter if they become involved in the political process. That is part of the reason we had a Watergate. When good people turn their backs on the political parties, then there are a whole host of vultures waiting to swoop in to feast on the savory meat of power that is involved in government,” Spainhower said.

Participation
He adamantly stressed that “if the good people don’t participate in government, then we are damaging ourselves and our country.”

Nine – The importance of friends. “The older I get, the more friends mean to me. There is just nothing like a friend,” Spainhower said. He noted that in his position as a state officeholder he meets thousands of people on an acquaintance level. Because of the necessity of meeting many people on a superficial level in his job, his friends from his community are coming to mean more and more to him each day.

“I like to keep in contact with the people I served her as minister of the First Christian Church and as State Representative,” he said. “Those friendships through the years have sustained me and my family.

Ten – the importance of never underestimating the power of an idea whose time has come.

“If this were truly my last lecture, I would want to tell my audience that in this world ideas do move men. And, men do move the world. So, I would say, seek out the ideas that have power for you. Do work for those ideas in your world,” Spainhower said.

Eleven – Books. Spainhower listed 14 books that have had a real influence on his life and the way he views life. He noted that these books were not really classics and that most of these books would not be listed by college professors as the great books of the world.

“Nevertheless, these books have had a great influence on the way that I think and feel about life,” he said.

The first book he named was the Bible.

“I name the Bible not just because I’m supposed to, but because it has had the most influence on my life. There is no book more fascinating than this book,” he said.

Other books he mentioned were “If This be Religion”; an autobiography of Lincoln Steffens; Paul Tillock’s sermons, “Shaking of the Foundation”; a modern text of abnormal psychology; Otto Kingberg’s “Social Psychology”; Leo Strauss’ “Political Philosophy”; Robert Mickles’ “Political Parties”; James McGregor Burns’ “The Lion and the Fox”; William Danforth’s “I Dare You”; Clyde Reid’s “Celebrate the Contemporary”; Henry C. Link’s “The Return to Religion,”; John F. Kennedy’s “Profiles in Courage”; a book by A. Cresse Morrison concerning the fact there was and is a creative mind who brought this world into being; and the books of Agatha Christie – “because each of us needs something light and entertaining to read that takes us out of our everyday world.”
In conclusion, Spainhower said that the most important thing he would like to leave with his audience is that he has found there is one overriding important fact.

“And, that is that God forgives.  And, God forgives even now as I fall short in the quest to try to tell you the most important things in my life in this ‘Last Lecture”.”

The Good, The Bad and The Ugly

I'm pretty sure I've used that title before, but what the heck.  If the shoe fits, right?

It's been eleven days since I touched down on the West Coast.  It has been, in a word, AMAZING!  I've seen pictures of, and movies about, Southern California, but seeing it in real time with me own eyes is another thing altogether.  As I write, I'm looking out over our street, Avenida Palizada.  It's not the quietest neighborhood, but neither is it boring.

Every night about 8:30 we hear the familiar metal rattle of a skateboard whizzing down, and then up, the street.  Our deck overlooks a lovely pinkish stucco apartment building with magnificent palms, ficus (the same kind you might have in your home, but on steroids) and two beautiful stained glass windows that are exceptionally pretty at night when lit from within.

Catty corner to our apartment is a house that regularly has wet suits tossed over the railing of the deck.  It caught me off guard at first...it looked like a couple of folks had had too much tequila the night before and passed out.

Can we talk about surfing?  It's the sport of the gods.  Every day since I've been here, I've walked on the man-made path that winds up and down the coast, with the San Clemente Pier as its center.  There are always little black dots of surfers waiting, waiting, waiting for that perfect wave.  One of these days I'm going to ask one of them what it is that they look for as they scan the approaching waves.  They'll be floating, floating, floating, riding out most of the waves when all of the sudden, they turn around (facing the shore) and start paddling like mad.  Once the wave starts to crest, they hop up on their feet and start the ride, darting to and fro, cutting and, if they're lucky, ride the wave pretty close into the shore.  It takes a great deal of patience, I'm guessing some pretty amazing core muscles and finesse.  (Side note:  if you get a chance to see "Soul Surfer" watch it.  Great (true) story about a very talented, courageous young surfer from Hawaii.)

One of these days I'll post about the people.  Variety, as they say, is the spice of life.

The adventure has not been without its anxious moments.  The night before I left Kate and Tyler were over to bid me adieu and have one last meal together.  We were all sitting downstairs and Tyler grabbed his laptop and in no time was staring intently at it.  I asked him what he was looking at and he said, nonchalantly, "Washing machines."  What? Why was he looking at washing machines.  Turns out it was because he was using our washing machine, which had inconveniently decided to overflow.  "Great!" I thought.  Just what I needed.  Phone calls were made, solutions suggested and tried.  Nada.  Apparently the "I've got enough water, stop" sensor had failed.

But that's just the tip of the damned proverbial iceberg.

On Saturday, Ron and I were walking from our apartment to the pier/ocean (about a five minute walk).  I had pretty much literally just placed one foot into the warm sand when my phone rang.  Kate.  I was excited to tell her what I was looking at.

She was hysterical.  I couldn't understand what she was saying.  Every third and fifth word was intelligible.  Apartment.  Dark.  Smoky.  Wet.  Everything.  Ruined.

After spending the morning and early afternoon with Tyler scouring the Rivermarket Antiques, she had arrived home to a darkened apartment that reeked of smoke and had about two inches of water on the floor.  She immediately called the fire department, gotten her two kitties out and into her car and then she called me.

Long story short, they think the fan in the bathroom shorted out, caught on fire, dropped onto her bathroom floor, igniting a twelve pack of TP.  It got so hot that the toilet cracked, hence the flooding.  Although the fire was confined to the bathroom, the smoke and soot damage was pervasive throughout.  Unless you've lived through it, you cannot imagine how much damage smoke and soot can do.

Kate spend the next three days cleaning literally everything she had.  Six bags of clothes were tossed.  High school art projects were unsalvageable.  A chair that had been in our family for fifty years...ruined.

Bless her heart.  She had to settle with her apartment complex, sift through all of her belongings to see what could be saved, find a new apartment, move her stuff into the storage unit for two days, wash all of her clothes (sometimes twice) then move into her new apartment and go binge shopping at Ikea to replace a bunch of stuff.

Never had I wanted to be there for her more.  My heart ached for her.  It was difficult for all of us.  But, after a few teary phone calls, Kate was on it.  Nine days later she's in her new apartment, still finding vestiges of soot in some places, but for the most part settled.

Here's a picture of her bathroom.  It could have been worse.  So much worse. Had the fire not progressed as it did, the whole apartment probably would have been torched.  In the chaotic days that followed I calmed myself by thanking God that it wasn't worse.

Amen and amen.

Mamas Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Play Football, Part II

And...here's the rest of the story...

In 2006, the NFL appointed a new Commissioner, Roger Goodell, who, over the course of 24 years, had come up through the NFL ranks.  The chairman of the MTBI was replaced by Dr. Ira Casson, who would go on to be called Dr. No, so named because of his repeated "no" answers to ongoing questions regarding the correlation between concussions and brain trauma.

In 2007, an NFL summit was convened to discuss medical findings relating to concussions.  Dr. Omalu, the scientist who first identified CTE, was not invited.  Dr Julian Bailes, a former Steeler's team doctor and new believer in Omalu's research, offered to present Omalu's findings.

By this time there were two more cases of CTE to present: Andre Waters and Justin Strzelczyk. After Bailes' presentation, Casson stated that "anecdotes do not make scientifically valid evidence."

Discouraged, Omalu left Pittsburgh and moved to California.  About the same time, Dr. Ann McKee, a leading Alzheimer's researcher,was asked to join a team to further Omalu's study at Boston University.  And, a new player in the game (of research), Chris Norinski, took on the role of the Brain Chaser.  Having played college football and later as a professional wrestler, Norinski came to believe that repeated blows to his head had given him CTE.  His first clue?  A headache that lasted five years.

With Norinski's help, Boston U began receiving more and more brains of former football players to study.  All showed CTE.

In 2009, journalist Alan Schwarz received - from an NFL source - information about a study the NFL conducted with its players.  It showed that dementia and memory disorders occurred  at a higher rate than the regular community.  When Schwarz published an article about the findings, the NFL denied its own study, saying the design was flawed.

Eventually, Congress got involved, convening a series of hearings to assess the situation.  Roger Goodell, the NFL commissioner, could not (would not) adequately answer questions put to him; one Senator likened the NFL to Big Tobacco. 

Finally, decades after the discovery of CTE, and realizing the potentially catastrophic results of being of being lumped into the pile as the tobacco industry, the NFL took some action.  They revised their policy on head injuries:  a concussion is now a game ending injury.

Not a career ending injury.  You just couldn't go back in the game once your bell had been rung.

They also gave a million dollars to Boston University and designated BU as the preferred brain bank for CTE study.

By now, 20 brains of former NFL players had been analyzed.  Nineteen were positive for CTE.

It only gets worse.

Owen Thomas, a 21-year old college student and football player, committed suicide.  He had never been diagnosed with a concussion.  Dr. McKee began to realize that sub-concussive hits can also lead to CTE.  Even if a player is never diagnosed with a concussion, CTE can develop.

Eighteen year-old Eric Pelly, died ten days after being diagnosed with his fourth concussion. McKee was expecting to find Pelly's brain in a pristine condition, due to his youth.  Instead, she found the beginning signs of CTE.

Because brains in younger people are lighter, when the head is hit, there's more inertia so the brain hits the skull with greater force.  Researchers now say that no one under the age of fourteen should be playing tackle football.

Dr. McKee and her colleagues continued their study.  Of the 46 brains they examined, 45 were CTE positive.  McKee wonders if EVERY SINGLE NFL PLAYER HAS CTE.

In 2012, Junior Seau committed suicide in California.  Omalu asked Seau's son for permission to examine his father's brain.  As Omalu was harvesting the brain, the NFL stepped in to stop him from proceeding.  The NFL had contacted Seau's son and accused Dr. Omalu of 'practicing bad medicine. Seau's son had changed his mind.

The brain went,instead, to the National Institute of Health, not the preferred brain bank at Boston University.  Perhaps the NFL was growing weary of learning that (nearly) every former football player BU examined had CTE.   Perhaps they were hoping for a different result.

 Seau's brain was full of the tau protein that indicates the presence of CTE. A result of his 1,849 career tackles.

As late as 2013, Commissioner Goodell was still deflecting questions that link football head injuries  to CTE.  "It is unclear."

That same year, 4.500 retired football players filed a lawsuit, stating that the NFL had fraudulently concealed the risks associated with playing football.  In the lawsuit the players asked for two billion dollars.  The NFL and the players settled out of court for $765 million; the NFL admitted no liability or weakness.

Which allows them to keep denying and hiding the truth.

The NFL has made its name by marketing the violence of the sport.  There is more violence per square foot on a football field than any other sport.  The biggest cheers are, of course, for touchdowns.  The second biggest cheers are for the most brutal hits.  It has a certain Roman empire/gladiator/kill for sport ring to it.

"Everyone now has a better sense of what damage you can get from playing football.  And I think the NFL has given everybody 765 million reasons why you don't want to play football."
            - Harry Carson, New York Giants linebacker, 1976-1988

Barbaric.  Dangerous.  Deathly.

Is it worth it?

P.S.  Will Smith's new movie "Concussion" is about Dr. Bennet's fight to expose CTE.

Mamas Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Play Football

As I write, the city is abuzz with all things red and gold.  Everyone's hoping for another Big Game win and a chance to converge on downtown to support their Chiefs.

Me?  Not so much.  Every time I see a promo for a football game I get a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach?  Why?  I'm glad you asked.

Last week I watched a PBS Frontline documentary, "League of Denial: The NFL's Concussion Crisis."  It was full of helmet crunching footage, sad, sad stories of retired football players, decades of denials from the NFL and a grim prognosis for all football players and the sport itself.

In 2002, Pittsburgh Steeler player Mike Webster died, eleven years after he left professional football. He was fifty years old.  Dr. Bennet Omalu, the neuropathologist who performed the autopsy, said that if he hadn't know how old Mike was, he would have guessed he was in his seventies.

Pictures of his legs during the autopsy were horrifying.  For lack of a better description, they looked like Cabbage Patch doll legs...puffy, bloated and certainly not normal.  Mike's forehead was permanently affixed to his skull, the result of scar tissue built up due to the numerous concussions he sustained during his 17 years in the pros.  Towards the end of his life, Mike was unable to focus, had trouble finding the right words, experienced fits of rage and exhibited other signs of dementia.  Eventually, he ended up living in his car.

In 1997, believing his deteriorating condition was a result of his years in the NFL, Webster filed a lawsuit against the League's retirement players board.  His lawyer sent Webster's medical records to four different doctors for review.  They all concluded that Webster had sustained traumatic brain damage as a result of his 17 years in the NFL.  The NFL had his medical records evaluated by another doctor, Dr. Ed Westbrook, who concurred with the other findings.

The NFL had no choice but to acknowledge that Webster's condition was a result of the beatings he took during his professional career and agreed to pay him a monthly disability stipend.

The NFL did not make the information public.  For decades.

In the mid-90's, the NFL established the Mild Traumatic Brain Injury Committee (MTBI), headed by a rheumatologist(!).  Half of the doctors on the board are NFL team doctors.  Over the next fifteen years, the Committee would conduct "research" that would state that there was no relation between hitting your head and later health problems.

After Webster's death in 2002, a close examination of his brain led to a dark discovery.  Dr. Omalu, after sectioning and staining tissue from Mike's brain, discovered the presence of tau protein in areas of the brain not generally associated with dementia or Alzheimer's.  The presence of tau protein destroys the integrity of surrounding brain cells.

Omalu classified the condition as chronic traumatic encephalopathy (CTE).  He published his findings in the journal Neurosurgery. The MTBI attacked Omalu's article, claiming that there was no evidence that Webster's brain was abnormal.

In 2005, another Steeler's player, Terry Long, died after drinking anti-freeze.  Omalu examined Long's brain and found the same tau proteins.  The MTBI again refused to acknowledge Omalu's findings, accusing him of "practicing voodoo."

Omalu was summoned to speak with an NFL doctor.  During the course of their discussion, Omalu was asked several times, "Do you know the implications of what you're doing?" several times.  Finally, Omalu says, "Why don't you just tell me."

"If ten percent of mothers in this country would begin to perceive that football was a dangerous sport, that is the end of football."

As a mother, I am incensed to think that an organization as large as the NFL would dare to put their billions of dollars in assets and profits before the health and well-being of a child.  Their lack of response and blatant denial of concussion repercussions is heinous.

Part ll to follow...

Beware the Nit Pickers

This is the email I just sent to Apria Healthcare... 

I just spent an hour and a half on the phone with five different representatives trying to get to the bottom of a billing issue, which even now I'm not sure has been properly resolved. 

It started with a phone call from a collection agency for a bill of $14.94.  "Wait a minute," I thought. "I paid that."

So I called the fine folks at the Apria "help" center. 

This was the fourth or fifth attempt my husband and I have tried to get this straightened out over the last five months.  I can't begin to calculate the number of hours we have spent trying to resolve an issue that's less than $15.  We have been Apria clients for well over ten years.  While the products we've purchased and used have been great, the customer service is, without doubt, the worst we have ever encountered.

At the end of the last conversation I had with an Apria representative (probably in November), I asked them to send me a bill for $14.94 and I would gladly pay it.  Which they did and I did.  I thought the matter was over.  After all, I hadn't received another bill from them.  How was I to know it would end up in the Nit Pick Department? (More on that later).  

Today I spoke to five representatives.  Each one told me a different story.

The first person told me I had an account overage of $14.94. 

The second one (Janet) said my money was tied up in the Nit Pick Department.  The what department?  THE most unprofessional term I've heard in a long time.  She couldn't tell me why it was in the Nit Pick Department, but said she couldn't do a thing until it was finished in the Nit Pick Department.  When I told her I was looking at the cancelled check (on my computer screen) I'd sent last month she wanted me to send me a copy of it to her.  Clearly, Apria had received it because, again, I was looking at the cancelled check. In my opinion, it's not my fault that the check was lost (or tied up in limbo in the Nit Pick Department - again, really?); therefore, I should not have to prove that the invoice was paid.  Also, if my money is in the Nit Pick Department being haggled over, or whatever it is they do in the Nit Pick Department, why was it turned over to collection?  It's there, in the Nit Pick Department.  Quit nit picking and use the money to settle my account.

The third person (a supervisor named Taylor) bore the brunt of my frustration.  She tried to back peddle the whole Nit Pick Department thing.  In my mind I was thinking, "I could bring down the whole company by letting the world know there's such a thing as a Nit Pick Department at Apria."  But then I decided I'd wasted enough time on you guys. (OK, I lied.)

Taylor finally - after at least a half hour of not being able to answer my concerns in a satisfying manner - offered to write off the balance.  She also told me that our insurance company hadn't paid our last claim at 100%, which I told her was strange, given the fact that they had been doing since April, when we met our out-of-pocket deductible.  

I told her I'd check on our insurance website.  Sure enough, the information on the website indicates that they paid the claim in full.

So...I guess I'm a glutton for punishment.  I called Apria back and - silly me - asked to speak to Taylor.  Oh, that's not possible, I was told.  I'm guessing Taylor wasn't even in the same building/state/country.  I told the representative that our insurance is on record for paying the claim in full.  She said they only received a portion of it.  Dear God in heaven!  Did it end up in the Nit Pick Department again?

As I was navigating through the insurance website I noticed that for three months in a row (probably longer) our insurance had been billed for fairly large amounts.  I asked the representative what those charges were for and she couldn't tell me.  That was the fourth person.

The last person I talked to was able to answer my questions and said she saw the check for $14.94 and that she'd credit my account and everything would be at zero.  I didn't have the strength to tell her that Taylor had already credited our account.  We'll just leave that up to the Nit Pickers.

The one good thing that came out of this is that I learned that we officially own my husband's CPAP machine, so we will NEVER EVER have to use the services of Apria Health Care again.

And, if it ends up that we actually have a credit...give it to the Nit Pick Department.

Myrtle Mae

I can't quite put my finger on the exact year I first met Marilyn.  My dad was serving as pastor for the Christian Church in Bosworth, MO and Marilyn's parents lived right across the street from the church.  And they had an indoor bathroom; the church still had an outhouse.  I was probably six or seven when our family first met Marilyn and her kids, Lisa and Bryan.  They lived in Jefferson City, but visited Grammy and Papa often, so we'd see them at church and we became good friends.

During the summer, I'd spend a week or so in Bosworth with Lisa, Bryan, Marilyn, Grammy and PaPa.  Grammy would fix us pancakes and let us drink Pepsi-Cola for breakfast.  Then Lisa and I would saunter on up to the pool hall to drink some more Pepsi-Cola and watch the old men play pool.  It was not unlike "To Kill A Mockingbird" except that there was no Boo Radley.

One of my most vivid memories is of Lisa and I and another girl (whose name I obviously can't recall) happily washing off the day's dirt in the bathtub (remember, we were itty bitty then and could fit three in a tub).  All of the sudden, there was pounding on the bathroom window...lots of it.  Never have you seen three little naked girls hop out of the tub and run through the house, dripping wet.  Marilyn, of course, was the culprit.  She found it hilariously funny.  So do I, fifty years later.

We moved from Marshall to Jeff City in the early 70's and our friendship grew even stronger.  We went to the same church and, oftentimes, our families seamlessly melded into one big, loud bunch.  During my dad's career in politics, Marilyn was a driving force, running us kids to various campaign events, making sure we had our red, white, and blue shirts and foam boater hats in place.  She was tireless.  She later worked for dad in the treasurer's office and I spent many a weekend at the Parrish home on Indian Meadow Drive, when mom and dad were away for a political event.

Everyone called Marilyn by her first name...kids, too.  However, my parents were old school.  It wasn't cool to call an elder by their first name.  So we came up with Myrtle (or Myrtle Mae).  Eventually I got old enough to call her Marilyn, but occasionally I'd slip up and call her Myrtle.

The Parrish house was THE house to congregate.  Every kid on the block seemed to gravitate to Marilyn.  She was funny, energetic and always up for anything.  She was the Cool Mom.  On more than one occasion she allowed me, Lisa, Bryan and my brother to skip church so we could watch an old black and white Marx Brothers or Abbott and Costello movie on Saturday night or Sunday morning.  It was important to laugh, she'd say.

I have so many wonderful memories of Marilyn.  One of the best (and, now, funniest) is the day all of us kids were loaded into her car and she's driving us in downtown JC.  All of the sudden she slammed on the brakes and yelled, "There's Squeaky!  Look!"  And right then I got my first (and, I think, only) look at a "lady of the evening."  How many other moms do you know that would do that?

That's what was so great about Marilyn.  There was no class structure in her world.  Everyone was equal and everyone had a story to tell.  Maybe it was because she lost her husband so early (1967) that she determined to get the most out of life.  She had plenty of obstacles, but chose to see the good side of humanity and used those challenges to grow as a person.

And, she was about as loyal a person as I've ever seen.  She was the first person I'd ever heard describe themself as "a yellow dog Democrat" - meaning she'd vote for a yellow dog before she'd vote for a Republican.  She spent the majority of her adult career working in the Missouri capitol.  She knew EVERYONE.  And everyone knew her.  She had a smile that lit up the room and a laugh to match it.  Anyone who's heard that laugh is smiling right now.

When I heard Ron answer the phone on Saturday and say, "Hey, Lisa" followed by, "No, no," I knew that Marilyn was gone.  It's still hard for me to believe that she's not still here.  We just got a Christmas card from her and my folks just talked to her a week ago.

Marilyn lived her life on her terms.  She was fiercely independent and, some might say, stubborn as a mule.  Does that surprise you?  All Democrats are mules.

Marilyn - my second mom - I love you.  I miss you.  I remember you.

With love...

Nutso Techno

There are times when I am absolutely fascinated by technology.  And there are times when I'm terrified of it.  Let me give you some examples.

There's this little cider mill a couple of miles from my parents' home.  Open only for a few months during the fall, this quaint operation has been dishing out hot, cinnamon-y donuts for quite a few years.  They sell other stuff, but let's face it...it's the donuts that people stand in line for.  While you're waiting - if you're lucky enough to be with another person to hold your place in line - you can wander over to this little window and watch the donuts being made.

Some nice, older woman spoons the batter into a hopper and - through an amazing feat of technology - two perfect donuts are plopped into super hot grease about every two seconds.  They float along for maybe fifteen seconds and then - another amazing feat of technology - they get flipped over and drift happily for another fifteen seconds.  The result?  A perfectly golden sphere of deliciousness.

I could watch it for hours and hours.  Not kidding.  After a few hours I'd be Zen perfect.

Not long ago I watched an intriguing show about the "real" King Tut.  How can they call it the "real" King Tut.  Why, because of technology, of course.

They used super elaborate methods and equipment to test the death mask (the famous one with all that gold) and determined that the front piece and back piece were not one solid piece, but two, joined together by ancient duct tape.  Not really. I think they used rivets.  Whatever.

I have a degree in history (I might have mentioned that before).  I should be interested in this kind of stuff.  And I am, up to a point.  But when they're spending lots and lots of money and high falutin' microscopes and other equipment I can't remember, I have to ask myself:

Shouldn't this time and money be spent on something else?  Like curing cancer?  I know too many people battling all types of cancer.  Bad, nasty, life-ending stuff.  King Tut is dead.  And has been for a really long time.  These people need answers.  Yesterday.  We know enough about King Tut.  (I beg forgiveness for any Egypytologists reading this).

So...I was excited to see advertisements for the new series, "Breakthrough."  Six well-known directors taking aim at some of our world's leading breakthroughs in science. I was intrigued.

The first one scared the crap out of me.  It was about Ebola and the awful, painful death that is almost always inevitable.  And how catastrophic it has been - and can be - in a pandemic situation.  In a matter of weeks.

All I can say, after watching that first episode, is that there are a lot of SUPER brilliant minds out there and we should be thanking God that they are alive and using their brains to help develop a cost-effective treatment and strategy for eradicating this scary disease.

Then... Paris happened.  And San Bernardino.  And you realize that it doesn't take a disease to claim lives.  It takes a mind that has ceased to be rational.

And technology.

I often wonder what we'd do without the World Wide Web.

I really think we'd be safer.  And more ignorant.

Which is worse?

Let's Get Real

I think we're losing our grip on reality.  Reality TV, that is.

I remember when the trend started moving towards this genre of entertainment (if you can call it that).  Some network executive realized that paying TV stars a million bucks an episode wasn't cost effective and opted instead for an option that was heavy on drama/shock and light on talent.

Enter "The Real World," "The Osbornes," "Survivor" and on and on and on.

I liked "The Real World."  I liked "The Osbornes."  And even to this day I watch "Survivor" and "Amazing Race" and a handful of other reality shows.

Here's the deal.  Some of them have become more surreal than real.  They've been scripted and edited to death.  Loved the first season of "Duck Dynasty."  Uncle Si was too good to be true.  You can't script that kind of humor.  But slowly and surely, the themes seemed to be contrived, even rehearsed.  Sad, really, because they are an interesting bunch of people.  They don't need outside intervention to make them appealing.

One of our favorites is "Alaska, The Last Frontier."  It's about the homesteading Kilcher family.  Four generations have worked the land, raised cattle, planted vegetables, bred chickens, kept bees and borne kids.  While I sense a bit of scripting, for the most part it's just a peek into what it takes to live off the land in one of the most beautiful places on earth.

Another one we watch is "Life Below Thirty," another series set in Alaska.  Incidentally, there are quite a few shows about Alaska...it's like it was just discovered or something.  People.  It's as old as I am.  Well, maybe a little longer.  Been around for awhile.

Anyway, back to the tundra.  These folks live in frigidly cold places and are forever talking about the pickles they'd be in if they fell through the ice or couldn't make a fire.  I'm like, "Yeah, but there's a camera crew right next to you."  Pretty sure if someone fell through the ice, there'd be at least one or two hands to haul them out.  Or hand them a lighter or one of those fire starter logs.

Here's my biggest astonishment...Drugs, Inc. I'm not sure this technically qualifies as a reality show, but it's real.  Or is it?  Ron likes to watch this on occasion so I acquiesce because he watches a lot of Food Network with me.  What I do not understand is this.  They are showing people making meth, cutting cocaine, making heroine balls...all highly illegal things.  Are the producers not responsible for alerting the authorities to this stuff?

They film cops and DEA agents conducting raids - usually resulting in nothing.  Shouldn't those cameramen be saying, "Hey, I think I might know where you could find some real thugs and massive amounts of drugs.  Follow me."

Same thing with Moonshiners.  The drug folks cover up their faces with all manner of scary masks.  The moonshiners?  They don't give a rip.  They're mighty proud of their stills and hiding places and they don't mind showing their faces on TV.  The law enforcement guys have a heckuva time finding stills hidden deep in the woods.  Again...cameramen, producers?  Do you not have a moral responsibility to help apprehend these criminals?

I don't get it.

Maybe it's just me.  But I'm thinking the REAL in reality TV has gone 'round the bend, never to be seen again.

Oh well.  Move on.  Surely there's something in the works that will prove to be even more fantastic than anything we could ever dream of!

Can't wait.

Don't Change the Chanel

My favorite new show this fall is "Scream Queens."  I am, strictly speaking, not a fan of horror movies.  Unless it involves the hi jinks of Abbott & Costello.  Or the Bowery Boys.  (I am seriously dating myself here...I feel compelled to clarify that I saw those movies on TV, not when they originally premiered on the big screen.)

I was only able to watch one season of "American Horror Story" and a couple of seasons of "True Blood."  Too much mayhem and blood and creepy stuff for me.  So when Kate and Tyler told me that I HAD to watch "Scream Queens," I acquiesced (caved) and said I'd watch one episode, just to get them off my back.

Oh.my.gosh.  It is so inappropriately funny I can't stand it.  I cannot believe some of the phrases that are allowed to be uttered on prime time television.  It's "Mean Girls" + "Clueless" + "Glee" + "American Horror" + "Porky's" + "Animal House."  It all adds up to a highly campy, over-the-top murder mystery, with never-ending plot twists and turns and extremely clever/cutting dialogue.

Ryan Murphy and Brad Falchuk, who are the geniuses behind "Glee," "American Horror," and "Nip Tuck," have taken elements of their past triumphs and blended them into a crazy hour of smack downs, faux fur fashion shows, oddball and stereotyped characters/  It's magic in HD.  Another show (a la "Glee") during which no societal group is spared, lampooning left, right and center.

And can we talk about cultural relevance?  Quite regularly, the writers reference on-trend topics that are HILARIOUS.  On the episode, "Chaneloween," I immediately knew what they were parodying; my kids didn't.  How hip am I?  I will be reminding them of that moment for years to come.  Or until I forget that it happened.

I think one of the reasons I find it so funny is because it is SO over the top.  Dialed down a notch or two it would be tasteless and one or two toes over the line as offensive.  There are quite a few sexual innuendos, but they're done in such an unabashed, unapologetic way that's you can't help but laugh.

It doesn't hurt that Jamie Lee Curtis is one of the leads in the show.  She's a "Scream Queen" in her own right and she's great.  Emma Roberts is perfect as Chanel, and her minions, Chanel #s One, Two, Three, Four, Five and Six include Abigail Breslin and Lea Michele and Ariana Grande.  Add in an always funny Niecy Nash and Nick Jonas and it's a surprisingly well blended cast.

My favorite character, however, is Chad Radwell (Glen Powell).  He's a member of the Dickie Dollar Scholars fraternity and he is a swell compilation of several fraternity boys I knew in college.  Prepped out to the max, fabulously rich and completely ego-centric.  I can't wait to hear what's going to come out of his mouth, once he's removed his permanently placed silver spoon.

Yes.  It's mindless TV.  But I don't care.  Plus, how am I ever going to find out who the Red Devil Killer is if I don't keep watching?

Going Royal

If we're friends on Face Book, and assuming you read every single one of my posts (!), you would know this about me:  I don't really care for sports, not having played any when I was young.  Unless you count kick the can.

However, I graduated from a sports frenzied high school.  Our Jefferson City Jays football team was amazing, winning a couple of state championships in a row.  I think.  I'm sure I'll be reminded if my memory is faulty.  Well, that's already been established in myriad situations.  But I'm talking specifically about that state championship thing.

Later on in life, I used to get very irritated when I was on staff at a church and we had to consider the city's sporting schedules before making plans to undertake anything that required a lot of folks.

And then there are the players' salaries.  Massive amounts of hungry people could be fed, homeless be sheltered, diseases researched and cured with the billions paid to sports personnel.  I haven't done the math because I only have ten fingers and ten toes.  I think I'd even blow up my solar powered calculator attempting that equation.

And, can we talk about the tedium that sports watching entails?  I think soccer is the worst culprit (sorry soccer fans and players...I still love YOU).  When a score is 1-0 after ninety minutes that really just amounts to a lot of running around, kicking a ball, sometimes headbutting (why are no helmets involved) and quite a lot of flopping.  I'll bet you're surprised that I know that term.  Now THAT'S a reason to watch soccer...so I can yell, "He's TOTALLY flopping!"

Lastly, but probably most importantly...I can't handle close games.  I can tune into the last few minutes of a basketball game and get completely tied up in knots if it's a three or four point game.  I blame Brian Presberry for that.  He made some crazy last second shot and our Jays won by one point against our arch nemesis, Columbia Hickman.  I think I had already graduated because I can see it perfectly in my mind and I wasn't sitting with the million other Jayettes...I was across the gym.  That doesn't really matter, except to point out that my brain stores ridiculous things that I need to get rid of to make room for things that matter now.  Like why I got up and went into the kitchen.  (That happened this morning.  And, sadly, it's not the first time).

So that's why I don't care for sports.

But...something happened to me last month I haven't been able to decipher yet.  I didn't watch one single baseball game the entire regular season.  I heard from time to time that the Royals were doing well and I was like, "Oh, yea.  That's good."  I don't even think I watched any of the games against Houston.  But by the time Toronto rolled into town I found myself oddly attracted to it.  I watched all the games.  Stayed up way late and considered asking my doctor for a prescription for nitroglycerin.

By the time the World Series rolled around I knew the batting lineup.  What's up with that?  By the end of the first game I knew which Mets players and pitchers were gonna give us trouble.  "Us?"  Somewhere between Toronto and the Mets I became a fanatic.

My kids were giving me funny looks.  Ron just kept rolling his eyes.  I would sit alone in our lower level (Ron won't let me call it a basement) and whoop and clap by myself.  Kate and I would text like mad, emogi-ing hand clapping and thumbs up and smiley faces with tongues hanging out.

It was a bit ridiculous.  Ok, more than a bit.

The last game, when it was tied in the ninth, I went upstairs to wake Ron up and watched the rest of it in our bedroom.  The weirdest thing happened.  It happens when I talk to the kids and we're watching the same thing...there's like a three or four second delay in what they're watching and what I see.  Our windows were open and I could hear people cheering before I saw what was happening on the television.  So...I knew they Royals had won before I saw it.  I remember whispering "They did it! They did it!" before the final strike was thrown.

The next day I watched everything I could about the Royals' hard fought victory.  I even watched a replay of the last three innings...and I still got nervous, even though I knew how it would end.

I debated back and forth about going to the parade.  Tyler and Ron had to work and Kate doesn't love big crowds, so I stayed home and watched it all unfold on TV.  It wasn't until the images started hitting Face Book that I was able to fully comprehend the magnitude of it all.

Amazing.  Just amazing.

If I had to use one word to describe how I felt it would be...

Joy.

Those Boys in Blue played with pure joy.  They love the game.  They love each other.  They have families who love and support them.  They know each others' skill sets; combined they're a force to be reckoned with.  They have freedom to play the best game they can, not dictated by an ego-driven manager.  But it's the joy that spills over, like the Gatorade Salvy loves to splash around, that makes them so likable and fun to watch.

And the fans!  Straight up beer-drinking, high fiving, Moose-calling, joy-filled men, women and children of all ages.  They love their Royals and their Royals love them right back.

If wishes do come true...I'd keep this team intact for another 100 years.  Or until their knees/arms give out.

I guess that makes me a fan, too.  And I kind of like it.

When's Spring Training start?  PLAY BALL!

Bloom, Dammit!

Although folks would be hard pressed to catch a glimpse of it now, there was a day when I was SUPER into entertaining and puttin' on the dog.  Southern Living and Martha Stewart Living provided my daily devotionals and, at times, I was able to channel Martha just by clicking my heels together three times and repeating "Use only the VERY BEST vanilla."

Southern Living has the best recipes out there, if case you're wondering.  Never made a bad dish from that magazine.  MS Living was chock full of ridiculous decor ideas that looked beautiful but required surgeon-esque skills and loads of specialty items.  I didn't even attempt those crafty things because I'd read the directions and my eyes would start to glaze over.

I did, one holiday season, buy a crap ton of glitter and made dozens of ornaments and candles with the stuff (Word to the Wise: don't do the candles...the glitter caught on fire.  I probably did it wrong).  When we decorate at Christmas, there are still traces of that sparkly endeavor in every box we unpack.

It slowly became...a problem.

I had butter molds of butterflies and acorns and unicorns (not really).  I combed the Colonial Williamsburg catalog for faux magnolia leaves and King Charles bedspreads.  I created holiday menus and printed them out...mainly so I'd keep on track, but - truth be told - also so I could practice my taste tantalizing verbiage skills...fresh hot yeast rolls, with sweet cream butter and assorted jams.  Homemade pumpkin spice with freshly whipped sweetened cream...

Very hoity toity.

But, then, after years of getting my kicks from all things fancy, I went into a self-imposed rehab.  Actually, I got bariatric bypass surgery and couldn't really eat all those things anymore.  So I tossed (or sold) all my butter molds, cancelled my Southern Living and Martha Stewart subscriptions and tried to develop some better habits.

Fast forward to last Saturday, when we were getting ready to come home from NOLA.  I bought a couple of magazines (Southern Living and Martha Stewart Living, of course) because - horror of horrors - out plane wasn't equipped with WIFI.  As I flipped through the pages of MSL, I noticed that they're still publishing Martha's monthly calendar of events.  And I remembered that it always served as a huge source of "Oh my gosh, can you believe she's doing that?" moments.

Once again, it did not fail to entertain.  Alongside her schedule of yoga, weight training and riding horses were her friends' and colleagues' birthdays, hair appointments, refrigerator cleanings, etc.

But...the one I love the most (and I remember seeing it on her calendar before...which leads me to believe the editors are cut-and-paste gurus) is the day she's set aside to force her forsythia and pussy willows to bloom.

Picture it.  A cold, grey, concrete room with a card table, one folding chair and a naked light bulb haphazardly hung from the ceiling.  Martha is in the chair.  A lone stick in a clay pot is on the table.

Tension fills the air.

In a strong, direct "I will not be dismissed" voice, Martha commands, "You.WILL.Bloom."

"NOW!"

"Or I will twist you in two, you ungrateful twig of a tree."

Martha fixes her steely gaze on the naked branch.  One minute passes.  Two minutes.  Thirty.

Finally, with a silent shudder and a spectacular clenching of its roots, a spec of yellow leaf begins to poke its head through the dormant bark.

Martha, her work completed, exits the room with a victorious stride, leaving the door open as a wide-eyed intern to timidly comes forward to finish the job.

Don't even try to tell me that's not the way she gets it done.

game changer

Yesterday, when I was promoting Ken Burns' "Civil War" series on Facebook, I said it had changed my life when I watched it twenty-five years ago.

Now, I'm the kind of person who believes when anyone makes a statement like that, it's pretty much mandatory that he or she explain those events.  Because, honestly, they don't happen that often, and who doesn't like a life-changing story?  Oh, we read of them DAILY on Facebook...although I doubt the veracity and monumental-ness of many of them.  I mean, finding 8,320 uses for Dawn dishwashing liquid does not qualify for "life changing" status, but apparently social media gurus tasked with creating scintillating copy have been born again by discovering that Dawn can make an effective mosquito repellent (unless you live in Minnesota...the only effective mosquito repellent there is hibernation during the summer months.)

So, here's my story.

I have a degree in history.  In the middle of my junior year I switched from a sociology major to history, pretty much because I liked the professors more and I have some kind of mutated brain that can retain and retrieve lots of dates and names and stuff that's useful in history tests.  And I can pull off some pretty convincing BS on essays. (I often say I got a BS in BS.)

When I was a student at William Woods College, we had this mini-semester at the end of the year, right after spring break, called Short Term.  Basically, folks took a four-week class from 10-12 (or if you were one of those overachievers, a class from 8-10), and the rest of the day was free to do all the things college students do all year long, except you don't have to cut classes to do it.

There were also "off campus" excursions to far away places like Savannah, Georgia and Charleston, South Carolina in courses called "The Civil War South."  Two weeks of classroom and two weeks of travel.  I was fortunate to be able to go on one of those trips and spent hours and hours walking through battlefields and antebellum homes and cities that were pristine and oozing southern charm... and pretty far removed from the carnage that took place there a hundred plus years ago.

So it was hard for me to really feel like I had gotten an intimate picture of how really devastating it was for our country.  I still had a passion for history, but it was a read-the-textbook-memorize-a-bunch-of-facts kind of passion.

Enter Ken Burns and his ground-breaking documentary in 1990.  Through the stirring narrative, journals, diaries and authentic images, some of them so graphic in nature it was difficult to comprehend, the Civil War - and its  people - went from being stories from my history textbooks to real, live, 4D people.  The dead - in a real sense - came to life for me.

It was at the end of the first episode that this metamorphosis crystallized for me...the reading of Sullivan Ballou's letter to his wife, written one week before his death at the first Battle of Bull Run.  Its eloquence, honesty and unabashed love for his wife moved me to tears and I felt the heartache that families across the young nation had to endure for four long years...still does every time I hear it (you won't be surprised to learn that I've watched the series multiple times).  If you're interested, here's a link to the text of his letter (it was edited in the film, but it's no less impacting in its abbreviated form). http://www.civilwar.org/education/history/primarysources/sullivan-ballou-letter.html?referrer=https://www.google.com/

That same year I saw "Dances With Wolves," which also gave me a more accurate picture of the travesty borne by Native Americans at the hands of our greedy, arrogant and misguided forefathers in their attempt to conquer the continent.  Again, the Lakota (and all Native Americans) became flesh and blood people, not just the subjects of Hollywood oater films - most of which portrayed the white folks as righteous crusader-like overlords and the Native Americans as uneducated, savage heathens, whose claim on their ancestral lands was illegitimate and a nuisance.

And here's where the story comes full circle...once I had established in my mind that these folks had beating hearts, eloquence of thought and speech, and a real loss of family, lands, culture, etc., I was able to make that same connection with...Jesus.

I've been a Christian all my life, but it wasn't until I saw those two films that I was able to take what had been an abstract idea in my mind and transform it into a living, breathing soul that walked the earth, teaching, loving and, ultimately, dying for my sin.

I know that's a very roundabout way of getting to a mature faith, but everyone's climb to the mountaintop is different, right?

I was humbled twenty-five years ago as the light bulbs kept blazing on in my head.  While I'm grateful to be an American, I can't say I've always been proud to be an American.  These two periods in our history are gruesome and grisly...a crossroads that my favorite "Civil War" commentator Shelby Foote says was a "hell of a crossroads."

Let's make sure we always try to choose the right path.

with this ring

We went out with our dear friends, Randy & Kim, to celebrate our anniversary last weekend and I'm just now able to sit up straight...I sprained my laughing muscles.  It was such a good time.  There's a richness to relationships that span decades and shared memories that bind us together as to make us inseparable.  Pure joy.

During the course of the evening, we talked about our early married life and I shared a story about Ron's wedding ring...

After I graduated from college, I moved to Branson, or more specifically, Point Lookout, where my dad was president of School of the Ozarks (now upgraded to College of the Ozarks).  I got a job waiting tables (my first - and last - attempt at that position) at a cute little restaurant in Branson called Harbor Lights.  It was on Lake Taneycomo, so I'm not how the "Harbor" moniker applied, but it was a decent place.  It was in town, not out on "the strip" - this was long before Branson flamed into the entertainment capital of the universe, so our customers were mainly locals.  And the occasional couple in town to drop or pick up kids from one of the Kanakuk Kamps.  These were the rich folks so we always vied for their tables.

But I digress.

Our wedding was three months away and I had to buy Ron's wedding ring.  I found one I liked and probably put it on layaway.  Every night after a shift I'd come home, pop into my parent's bedroom and dump my tips out of the pockets of my very stylish autumnal themed polyester smock onto their bed.  Then I'd count the quarters and dimes and nickles...and sometimes the bit or two pieces of "folding" money I'd managed to earn.  On a good night I'd make seven or eight bucks.  I remember once getting a $10 tip and thinking I'd hit the big time.  Ah, the age of innocence...

Finally, after three months of schlepping platters of food, ladling thick dressings on top of plain old iceberg lettuce, sneaking hush puppies when the cook wasn't looking and coming home smelling like a vat of grease, I'd made enough money to buy his ring...$125.  It was the first really big purchase of my life and I felt very accomplished.

Imagine my horror when Ron came home from work one day empty fingered.  School of the Ozarks has a mandatory work study program (in lieu of tuition) and Ron worked at the Transportation Department, punching coal.  A dirty, hot job.  He'd been washing his hands and, unbeknownst to him at the time, his ring slipped off and washed away.

I was devastated.  I'd worked so hard.  Listened to a third rate combo every weekend, doing bad covers of bad songs.  I'd had to throw a glass of water on a customer on Fourth of July because someone thought it would be great (and safe) to light sparklers inside and her chiffon blouse caught on fire.  I'd burned my fingers repeatedly splitting and smushing baked potatoes.  I'd had to try and erase the image of the cook and another waitress practically "doing it" in the walk-in.

It had taken every bit of three months to earn that money...now we had bills to pay.  We were never going to get enough money to buy another one.  I was inconsolable.

Then...miracle of miracles...the next day Ron went to work and someone had been cleaning out the drain and found his ring.  I'm sure tears were shed when he showed it to me.

It's been on his finger ever since.  Well, almost ever.  He had to take it off for his knee surgery earlier this year.  As he handed it to me I took a good look at it.  The fine row of ridges on the outside are long gone, rubbed away with wear.  It's no longer perfectly round, but has a rather oval shape.

It still has a good, heavy feel to it.  I smiled as I remembered the mountain of coins I amassed to buy it.

And then I slipped it on my third finger, next to my wedding rings, to keep it safe.

love shack

For those of you expecting a post a la "Fifty Shades of Grey," I apologize.  Although that woman has made a lot of money with her sordid accounts of sex and that single girl.  And I do have a lot of time on my hands...perhaps a Baby Boomer version..."Fifty Shades of Gray Hair."  What do you think?  If I ever were to write such a tome, believe you me, it would be LOADS better than the original.  And LOADS more realistic.

"Hey, you wanna?"
"Sure, why not?  I've got ten minutes before I have to take the foil off the casserole."

There you have it...brief, steamy and food at the end.

Back to the love shack...Ron and I commemorated our 34th wedding anniversary this weekend.  We commemorated it by me watching Ron sleep off his jet lag, having been in California all week, working 14 hour days.  We watched a little telly, went to the Farmer's Market, Ron went fishing, we both took naps.

Ok, we laid low because we're hitting the town this coming weekend with our friends, Randy and Kim, who got married exactly one week after we did in 1981.  No doubt it will be a night to remember (if I take notes.)

Ron and I often look at one another and say, "Did you ever think..."  We usually both shake our heads and act all mystified that we've been able to endure three plus decades.  I'm sure there were plenty of folks who were whispering at our wedding, "They'll be lucky to make it six months."

We met in an anthropology course at Westminster.  An 8 a.m., TTH 90 minute class, called Fossil Man.  It was easily the most boring and tedious class I've ever taken.  And I was a sociology major for the first three years of my class, so I know boring.

After class, we'd walk down the hill together, chatting, flirting.  Still, it took my roommate to set us up a year later before we actually went on a date.  After that first night, it was a whirlwind romance.  We got engaged in November, 1980 and got married the following August. I was the classic "went from my parent's house to the sorority house to my husband's house."

Neither one of us had had any independent living experience.  It was a rude awakening.  It took us several months before we realized that spending $25 every week at Wal-Mart was not smart financial planning.  Nor did we have any reliable family planning.

Thirteen months, to the day, after our wedding we were parents.  The first of many unexpected twists and turns in the Martinhouse saga.  It's a miracle that Kate can walk and talk and has all of her limbs.  We had no idea what we were doing.

Our first house was a trailer.  The bedroom was so tiny that we had to take the door off because it wouldn't shut with our double bed in it.  So we resorted to opening the bathroom door halfway; the door was the exact width of the hallway.

We went back to see it a couple of years ago and drove right by it twice before we recognized it.  It gave us great pause.  Looking back, I can't believe we lived there.  Looking forward, I can't believe we came from that to where we are now.

We've obviously had our share of challenges and conflict...emotional, relational, financial.  The first ten years were a struggle, the next ten were challenging on many fronts and the last ten have still provided us with plenty of opportunities to throw our hands in the air.  But, in the end, we still share a deep, abiding love for one another.

And the realization that, honestly, who else would have either one of us?  We've both got quirks and damaged parts.  Neither one of us would have a very good profile on match.com.

So what if our love shack isn't as hoppin' as it used to be?  I treasure the worn-out, lived-in, broken in jeans kind of feeling we have.  We've been through a bit of the refiner's fire and we're not perfect.

We're mellowed.  And we'll just keep getting better and better every year.

At least that's the plan.

westward ho

To no one's surprise I am a HUGE fan of anything that Ken Burns touches.  His documentaries could provide homeschooling moms with an entire curricula of history.  Just sit the kids down in front of the telly, press play and then head out on a week-long spa retreat.  They are that captivating (and long).

Not long ago I finished "The West" (which I may have mentioned in a previous post, but I'm too lazy to go see if I did).  Technically a "presented by" Ken Burns, the film is by Stephen Ives, but it's got Burns' fingerprints all over it.  It's a well-rounded account - the good, the bad, the ugly and the shameful means by which Manifest Destiny was embraced and carried out, no matter what the cost.  I won't go into detail here, but just Google Mountain Meadows and you'll read about a tragic event that I've never seen in a textbook about the American West. (Of course it's been a long spell since I saw a textbook on the American West.)

On my [unbearably hot] walk yesterday, I noticed a sign that indicated that the Oregon, Santa Fe and California trail passed right in front of me more than a century ago.  I said a prayer for all the men, women and children brave enough to make the arduous journey toward what they thought would be a better life.  Newly established territories and states flooded the East Coast with pamphlets promising unending acres of arable land and bounteous harvests, sweet spring waters and lots of wide open spaces.  As you might guess, dust bowls, droughts and plagues of locusts were not included in the "must see to believe" verbiage.

As sweat was trickling down by back, nose and into my eyes, I thought about those poor women who were confined to long dresses, multiple undergarments and sturdy shoes.  I was about to expire with yoga pants, a tank top and my new Asics.  Folks were made of sturdier stock back then, I suppose.  Or, more likely, they simply didn't know how hard it was going to be.

My great-grandfather was an '89er...a Norwegian immigrant running for his family's future in the Oklahoma land rush.  He staked out a 161-acre tract in what is now suburban Oklahoma City.  There's a street named after their family and my mother has very fond memories of her time spent on the farm.  I'd give anything to be able to walk through the house and soak up the history.

Because my mind tracks like a hummingbird, I was reminded of our trip to the Grand Canyon several years ago.  I was moved to tears after winding my way down the paved pathway, finally having it open up in front of me.  Grandeur beyond words.  As I stood there, looking from side to side, across and down I had to wonder...what in the world did the very first people to view this beautiful, cavernous hole think when they saw it for the first time?  Pretty sure this is what the conversation would have been...

Man: Well, looks like we'll be stopping here for the night.
Woman: Oh, come on we can go a few more...WHOA!  Well, okay then.

I mean, seriously.  That thing is big.  And rocky.  And probably full of snakes and scorpions and other buggy things.

Pretty sure I couldn't have been a pioneer.  Unless they had a tricked-out glamping Conestoga wagon.

if you can't say something nice...

...don't say anything at all.  One of the sagest pieces of advice my wisdom-filled mother taught me.  And I'd like to say that I always, always abide by it.  But I don't.  But I try.  Most of the time.

This is not one of those times when restraint will win out.

In just over a year all card-carrying voters will be heading to the polls to elect a new president.  Already the rhetoric, mudslinging and hyperbole is being vomited out of a million mouths, most of it reprehensible, inflammatory, inaccurate and completely not necessary.

I'm doing my best to ignore it, but my Facebook page is blowing up with articles about what a terrible president we currently have and there's a billionaire who's giving Sarah Palin a run for her money for saying the most ridiculous things I've heard in a long time.  LISTEN UP REPUBLICANS...if you want to have a decent chance next year, get this guy off the mic and turn your attention to some folks who have some serious political chops.  At this point, the only Donald I'd even consider casting a vote for is Donald Duck.  And he doesn't even wear pants.

Okay, rant over.  But probably not for long.  I'll try to keep it in my head and heed my mom's advice.

In other news...

I walk most days and my current favorite song is "Seventeen" by Ratatat.  I guess you could call it rap, although there aren't any words (excepting the intro Mr. Ratatat gives stating that he doesn't write any music anymore, he just kicks it from his head...).  Basically it's got a central beat and then it's just three or four chord progressions, each about a minute and a half long.  I play it about five time in a row just to keep me moving during the first part of my walk.

I like to listen to my music loud.  Probably too loud and in a few years I'll be staring blankly at people when they speak to me.  However, when I approach other walkers or lawn mowing people, I always turn it off, lest they think I've gone 'round the bend.  Once I pass them, though, it's all about the bass, baby.

I think I'm so hip.  I'm sure my kids would replace "hip" with "pathetic."

I don't really give a rip.

Lastly, I have this weird reaction whenever I see a lone shoe or sock or child's toy on the sidewalk or on the road.  I immediately think, "abduction."  Part of me wants to pick it up with a stick, bag it and tag it and take it to my local CSI station.  Because you never know...

what's wrong with us

As time goes by I begin to understand why the world at large has such a dim view of Americans.  We are loud-mouthed, opinionated, sometimes ignorant people who feel compelled to force our beliefs on others.  And it's not just a recent phenomena.  

I've been watching Stephen Ives' film, "The West" on Netflix and find that Americans' quest for more, more, more is not a 21st century problem.  It's been with us from our inception.  After the 1803 Louisiana Purchase, a whole vast frontier was opened up and we wasted no time in pushing through and usurping territory that had already been previously inhabited for hundreds of years.

There were some folks who simply wanted a better life, but with the discovery of gold at Sutter's Mill in California, the fever caught and the rush was on and the masses came with high hopes of striking it rich quickly.  Most didn't and lots of men died trying.  

I could go on for days and days with stories and statistics...suffice it to say that Americans behaved abominably towards Native Americans, making promises with little or no intention of honoring them.  One Native American spokesperson in the series did dispel the myth that everything was perfect with the lives of Native Americans before the White invasion.  They had many of the same problems any group of people have.  They were just tremendously exacerbated by the white man's insistence that these heathen people be subjugated and corralled.  Their treatment, and the institution of slavery, are the two biggest stains on our nation.  

And no amount of bleach or pre-treatment product is going to remove them.

I think these days we tend to push aside these failures in our humanity to pretend that they didn't exist...or don't still exist.  The whole conflagration with the Confederate flag should have been put to rest in 1865, with the surrender of Lee at Appomattox Courthouse.  At that moment, the South was no longer a separate nation.  It was part of the United States and all of those flags should have been replaced with the American flag.  

I don't want to hear about the Confederate Flag's cultural relevance or how it's part of their heritage.  It might well be part of their heritage, but, seriously...that heritage involved slavery, kidnapping, lynching, church burnings and countless other acts of hatred and racism.  

Removing the flag from public places is not the whole answer, but it's a start.  It's a statement that says we will no longer cling to the stereotype that is so, so hurtful and racially abhorrent to a large segment of the American people.  It says Jim Crow has moved on.

Now...about gay marriage.  You'll not be surprised that I was astounded (in a good way) when I got the text from Kate.  For me, it's never been about the religious view on homosexuality.  It's always been about the rights of ALL people to legally stand up before their families, friends and God and make a commitment to love, honor and cherish one another.

I cannot believe the indignation of some Christians are expressing about this.  Hypocritical doesn't even begin to cover it.  I watched a video this morning that suggested that we first remove the log from our own eyes before we can see the speck in the eye of our neighbor.  A good and sobering reminder that none of us is free from sin.  

I "shared" a blog post on my timeline written by Adam Hamilton, the senior pastor at Church of the Resurrection here in Overland Park.  It is a thoughtful, eye-opening look this issue.  I would encourage you to read it.  It points out that we cannot really opt for the "cafeteria" scripture plan...there are dozens of passages that call for us to act in ways that today we would think reprehensible...women being raped having to marry their rapists, rebellious children were required to be stoned to death, priests who daughters were prostitutes were burned alive  Here's a link to his blog...

http://www.adamhamilton.org/blog/view/196/the-bible-and-the-supreme-court-on-same-sex-marriage#.VZQFEPlVikp

We can do better.  We HAVE to do better.  Take some time to open your heart, your mind, your soul.  Ask God to speak to you.  Ask for forgiveness.  Ask for guidance.  Ask for God to render you color/gender/preconceived notion blind if need be.  Ask to be able to love your neighbor, maybe not as your love yourself, but better.

things remembered

Saturday was my brother's birthday.  I didn't remember until late in the day.  The last time he was at a family event was Christmas, 1989.  Tyler was just over a year old.  In a few months, Tyler will be 27.

Even though Jeff and I weren't biologically related, we had a special "adopted" relationship.  Sure we went through a time when we hated each other.  I called him an idiot (or something equally derisive) and he kicked in glass-paned door in our basement.  I still have the scar acquired when we were cleaning out the broken glass from the frame.  He broke his hand when he hit me on the hip bone in the swimming pool.  Who would have guessed that those scars would be minor compared to the ones to come later.

We grew closer in high school and college.  He gave me away at my wedding (Dad was officiating).  After Kate arrived, Jeff took great pride in being an uncle.  He was great with her and she loved him.

Then, in what seemed like a blink of an eye, things changed.  He was practicing law in a small community north of KC and one day this girl showed up and moved in with him.  Apparently they met in law school and had been dating, but we were none the wiser.

I'm not going to get into all the gory details (and there are some lulus, believe you me!), but eventually she gave him an ultimatum...it was either us or her.

I know there are many of my friends who've had estrangements in their family and I know firsthand how difficult and painful it can be.  My mom and I used to spend hours and hours - seriously, ask Ron - dissecting the events that lead to the separation, trying to analyze what went wrong.  We never figured it out and, over time, realized that we never would.  We haven't talked about it in years.

Tyler has never known Jeff.  Kate has fond childhood memories, but nothing past the age of six.

I've reached out to him numerous times, imploring him to come see my parents, especially in light of my dad's failing health.  I've gotten no response.

He does keep in touch with my parents occasionally.  Father's Day, Mother's Day, birthdays.  It kills me to think that they might not get to see him again before they're gone.  

But me?  Nothing.  Apparently he has "issues" with me.  Now, I could understand if we'd had an ongoing relationship during which I could have given him plenty to find issue with.  But, really?  I don't know what I've done.  And I'm done trying to figure it out.

I once sought the counsel of a pastor when I was having a particularly rough time dealing with this.  I think it was shortly after I learned that Jeff had become a father (a niece I've never met).  This wise man listened to me and said, "Janet, you can only clean up your side of the street.  The other side is his responsibility."

Oh, the freedom those words brought.  I knew I had done everything I could to mend the relationship.  But Jeff hadn't/hasn't reciprocated.  I think it's his loss.  And mine, too.  I miss my brother.

But...after all these years...so many important milestones come and gone without the benefit of familial celebration.  So much life lived.  I'm not sure how it would go.  I'm not sure if I want it to "go."

If any of you reading this live in Jefferson City and see him and want to smack him upside the head, you have my blessing.

And tell him to go see his parents.