Heartwarming Holiday Political Giving

I’m reading more and more heartwarming holiday giving stories online. I wish I had one to share. If you know me, you know I have always liked to volunteer and donate as much as I can. You also know all about my year-round freakish magnetism and my unfortunate experiences with the less fortunate over recent years (the girl at IndyReads who had been in their "system" for years, didn't bother to show up most of the time and only wanted to play cards when she did, the $100 worth of concert tickets I was told to buy as a Big Sister, the Salvation Army coat and toy store horror stories of liars and thieves, the highway ramp beggar who lived in the suburbs, the gift shop co-volunteer who yelled at me on Christmas Eve, I could go on and on).

My most recent jaw-dropping encounter: Our CFLC group meets monthly in a room adjoined to a tiny café known for welcoming the less fortunate (it has shower facilities, for example). A gal walked into the meeting room mid-meeting last month and whispered to someone who pointed her to our President.

The group was told that she was collecting money for bus fare. She needed $30 to get to a family member’s funeral that afternoon in Ohio. Our leader asked us if we would like to "pass the hat".

The CFLC fights for a living wage for the working poor, so somebody in the café must have told her we would probably be givers. We passed the hat (literally) and went back to our meeting.

This gal took the money from the hat and counted it – in front of us. Then, to the group and at the top of an entitled and accusatory voice, declared, “This isn’t enough” to which someone replied that she needed to move on.

She thanked us, not with a thank you but, with one of those offended hmmphs and stormed out. I wanted to go after her, grab my money out of her entitled little hands and hmmph her right back. But I didn’t. I was there to be charitable and helpful, after all.

So, this year, and until I’m over the last five years, I’ve decided to stick with political causes. This country’s populace (and specifically our collective middle class and working poor) is in dire straits and I think it’s where my time and money are best spent. I know I will still have to contend with certain ingratitude and entitlement, but hopefully in a much more impersonal way. This is best for me right now and best for others. Perimenopause and all.

Peace on earth. Goodwill toward men.

Adult Education Class

I’ll be teaching my Adult Ed class, Life as a Technical Writer, again at the J. Everett Light Career Center (JELCC) in Washington Township. It runs March 3rd – April 14th, 6:30-8:30 p.m. It will be chock full of hands-on exercises to develop professional technical documents, build professional portfolios, and update resumes. We’ll actually find and query potential customers – whether they like it or not! Peruse the catalog and sign up here: www.jelcc.com/adulted.html.

A Very Phoenix Xmas!

I attended A Very Phoenix Xmas at the Phoenix Theatre with some new friends last night. I had not heard of the theatre, but I was so glad for the invitation and the experience. The show was a series of somewhat irreverent holiday plays written by local playwrights and starring a handful of players who could do it all: dance, sing, act, play instruments, and deliver lines with believable accents. They call their performance edgy and that it was. One play that cracked me up was based on the munchkins who Dorothy left behind to clean up the dead witch mess (who they discover wasn’t undeniably and reliably dead like the coroner – who blames her error on all the dancing and singing at the time - said).

The Phoenix Theatre is housed in a renovated turn-of-the-century church in the heart of the historic Chatham Arch residential district of downtown Indianapolis. The theatre mission was to fill a niche in the Indianapolis theatre community with issue-oriented plays and professional production values in an intimate setting.

I’m an “indie-wanna-be”.  I admire unique thought, music, movies, books, you name it. And now I can add the Phoenix Theatre to my list of things to appreciate.

And some new friends to enjoy getting to know.

An "I can't afford to be internationally aware" Diatribe

I’ve been mostly and accidentally working in and around IT since the late 1987. I majored in Journalism in college, and Information Technology (IT) was never a thought. Besides, when I started college in 1981, COBOL programming was the extent of IT.

However, I learned quickly in the '80s that IT jobs paid more, so I leaned as far as I could in that direction. They also didn’t typically require a college degree (I didn’t graduate the first time around).

And I got lucky/was blessed. I started out doing software training for corporations in Atlanta, steadily built up to a development position (at which I thought I failed miserably, but had a ball), earned a CIS bachelor’s degree, and have ended up doing contract and freelance technical writing for a variety of large and small businesses and non-profit organizations.

The development position was my first exposure to working with IT folks from India. I didn’t especially like it then, and I really, really don’t like it now, almost ten years later. It has gone from a mere adjustment to a more diverse college-educated candidate pool to a moral issue for me.

It’s different now. It’s unequivocal and unabashed greed now. And it is affecting everyone. The middle class, who depend on corporations for financial survival and who provide the working poor and poor with most of their financial assistance, are finding it more difficult with each passing year to get jobs, much less minimal cost-of-living raises. Being one small step above office supplies, IT contractors simply can’t compete with whoever offers the cheapest rates, when rate is often, the only consideration.

I’m not in IT development roles anymore, but my rates are directly affected. It can be hard to justify paying me, as the Technical Writer on a project, more than the Indian developer. What company wouldn’t wonder what lowest rate they could propose?

The Software Configuration Management (SCM) managers at my current client recently refused to hire a well-qualified, stable, local candidate for a position they desperately needed to fill, because his salary requirement was $90,000 (average for this position). Instead, the company hired two Indians who are still being trained by this client and one of whom still struggles with English.

IT organizations intently hiring and marketing to Indians because of their cheaper rates is comparable to my shopping at Wal-Mart (which I don’t do anymore, except for an occasional ermergency trip for Newman’s Own Mango Salsa). The only people who benefit from Wal-Mart are the small percentage of customer service employees and distributors, when the people who could be employed making products at plants in this country would be thousand-fold. I’d bet a year’s salary that if you asked any shopper if he would rather have a bag o’ cereal for a dollar less or a full-time-with-decent-pay-and-benefits job making the cereal, the answer would be the job every time. But, since the job option doesn’t exist, his need for the cheaper cereal is understandable.

I recently met with an online education company with great vision and a hopeful cause. They develop online training classes for manufacturing employees – those who want promotions or just a foot in the plant door. What an admirable goal to help to the working people in this country trying to earn more for their families! Problem is: plants close every day, and manufacturing employees are being laid off every day - and by the thousands.

Where are we middle-class Americans to go? Should we start training and specializing in new fields? Great, how do we pay $50,000 for college for an entry-level job probably paying less?

And what are we supposed to say? We’re not supposed to be maddened by this. We’re supposed to be politically correct – the last term I heard for this was “internationally aware”. The media make us feel guilty for thinking negatively about immigration and NAFTA and the temporary Visa/guest worker program.

I love being exposed to and learning about other cultures, and I’d love to work with people from all over the world, but I just can’t play on the same financial field with the people here from developing countries. If that makes me politically incorrect or internationally unaware, give me the badge, because I’ll wear it proudly.

I wish I were smart enough to recognize a good solution to this problem before my son has to face the workforce. I don’t think a repeal of Clinton’s NAFTA will do it. I don’t think new immigration laws alone will do it. I think there has to be some sort of government-imposed returned incentive for (or penalties upon) companies to hire here and make things here. I think.

It’s beyond political; it’s really just the right thing to do for a class of people who contribute the most to this country. But who do we trust with “right things to do”?

Whatever presidential candidate addresses this with a non-partisan and non-political solution is the one for me, and I haven’t quite found him yet.

Mike Huckabee (who has a history of taxation) has a Fair Tax Plan on his website stating that American companies would be far less likely to move overseas and foreign companies far more likely to come here if a fair tax was implemented.

According to the explanation on his website: “A recent study by MIT found that our tax system deprives us of about $1 billion in exports annually. When you export over-priced goods as we have, you inevitably end up exporting jobs and industries as we now are. We are the square peg trying to fit into the round hole of international trade. The rest of the world isn't going to change, it's time that we do.” And according to Wiki: “Because the U.S. tax system has a hidden effect on prices, moving to the FairTax would decrease production costs due to the removal of business taxes and compliance costs.”

So, are taxes the key to repairing NAFTA and immigration and the Visa program? Does that mean that the greed is shared by both corporations and our government?

I’m officially a student. I’ll study and try to remember the bigger, critical picture, while I temporarily work in an office heated to 90 degrees (because, come to find out, Indians are “allergic to the cold”), listen to Hindi all day long (which I now hear in my sleep), and polish my incorrect and unaware badge.

PBS for the Holidays, too!!

I’m a huge fan of Independent Lens series on PBS. The airings are a little unpredictable here in Indianapolis, so I recently signed up for the series newsletter here: http://www.pbs.org/independentlens/newsletter.html

And today’s newsletter announced the second annual Independent Lens Online Shorts Festival!!!

We can watch the 11 award-winning films and vote for the Audience Award at:
http://www.pbs.org/independentlens/insideindies/shortsfest/

I can't wait to watch every last one tonight!

NPR for the Holidays

There are so many things I love about National Public Radio, but here's a particular favorite at www.npr.org: Each week, NPR presents leading authors of fiction and nonfiction as they read from and discuss their work. There are excerpts, podcasts, and RSS feeds to it all.

Books: http://www.npr.org/templates/topics/topic.php?topicId=1032

Book Tour: http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=10448909

If you’re looking for a good cause this holiday season, don’t forget your local member station.

Thanks for the Memory

I just love this girl: This Fish Needs a Bicycle.

She takes me back to days loooong gone. She makes me think of ADP days and Studebaker’s on Windy Hill nights.

Of a bar behind Fuddrucker’s on the corner of Windy Hill and Powers Ferry Roads that meant so much to me at the time but the name of which I can’t remember now. Of Benson and Hedges Ultra Lights. Of red Pontiac Fieros. Of New Jersey’s Patty Rypkema.

Of Judd Nelson phone calls.

Of Iris Best and our mission to get her some action (*gasp* - it was the 80’s - at least we had a goal). Of leaving work to play drunk putt-putt golf. Of deck parties. Of the determination of a guy named Mark.

Of a real dinner and dancing date with Bryan Franz.

And of my swan song (and nose dive) in New York City with a poor man who liked me under a couple of false pretenses, but without which I never would have had the once-in-a-lifetime chance for so many things female.

Two tears - one sad, one happy - slowly roll down the same face of a different woman.

So, thanks for the memory
And strictly entre-nous, darling how are you?
And how are all the little dreams that never did come true?
Aw'flly glad I met you, cheerio, and toodle-oo

And thank you so much.

“Thanks for the Memory”
Written by Ralph Rainger and Leo Robin
(c) 1937 (renewed 1964) Paramount Music Corporation

A new TV low

Well, I hate myself. I just cast my 5 online votes for my favorite Dancing with the Stars contestant. Can I sink any lower? Apparently so, because I don’t want to divulge my choice, just to be all mysterious about it.

I do have a semblance of a line, though, thank gawd. I saw a commercial last night for Big Brother casting. Never again will I watch that show. Even I don’t have that kind of time (or tolerance).

I need to do a TBS search for the Rudolph and Frosty and Grinch shows to come so I can work my schedule around them. Oh, a shiny holiday star amidst the gray skies of writers’ strikes.

It was Helio. I voted for Helio.

Twas the Night Before the Return to Work

The dryer is making soft tumbling noises, the rain is steadily trickling from the roof onto the front porch, Austin is laughing like he did when he was a baby at some television show in his room, I just found video of an X-Factor (first I’ve heard of it) contestant singing a touching rendition of Somewhere on the Internet (*update: the link to the YouTube video has been removed, but this site still has a video.), and I’m re-reading Cynthia’s response to my post to her about how scared I was to stop watching TV (a seemingly impossible dream).

**I have a fantastic story about the wonder of Cynthia Morris’ coaching. Someday, when I’m through raising what looks like a perfectly grown man, I’m going to pay her to lead me where she’s always sure I can go. Anyway, two years ago, I won a summer contest and got a few free sessions with her. We talked about dreams and obstacles, imaginary and real. The most real being fear and money, which boiled down to fear of money, which boiled down to fear of no money. I needed a magical number to live on and not worry every month and to concentrate and be able to think about other things like pursuing writing dreams. A month later, I was earning that magical number, allowing us to become debt-free and create an emergency fund. Absolutely by the grace of God, His Laws of Attraction, and the Muse that is Cynthia Morris.

Her original post is here: http://vivelaslink.typepad.com/vive_la_slink/2007/11/what-to-do-when.html

I'd love to stop watching television and I agree so much. I know it's key to fulfilling my life's purpose, but I also think I'd die from the silence and loneliness after just one day! :)
Posted by: Karen | November 21, 2007 at 01:39 PM

No, you would not die from the loneliness, but I understand. When I stopped reading while eating, I felt a pool of loneliness waiting to take me over. But then after a day or two, it went away and I was able to enjoy my food. I lost two pounds in two weeks just from stopping reading while eating.
In the silence without TV, you'll be able to better hear your Muse.
Posted by: Cynthia Morris | November 22, 2007 at 07:28 AM

Karen,
Wait a minute. You have the key to fulfilling your life's purpose and you're not using it to open the door? What are you waiting for? Many people wander around not having the key.
Come on! Your adventure is waiting for you!
no...more...T...V....
Posted by: Cynthia Morris | November 22, 2007 at 07:29 AM

**This just in: Austin was giggling at Kenny and Spenny – a new to Comedy Central show about disgusting and inappropriate boy things.

Another Oprah Quandary

No matter how much I don’t want to like Oprah, I do.

I’m not a regular viewer – haven’t been for years now. I think I stopped watching when the audience was taken over by giddy suburban housewives who dress up for the occasion and shake when Oprah enters the room.

But that’s exactly the reason I watch the annual Favorite Things show. My favorite thing about Oprah’s Favorite Things is the feeling I get about ME. I live for that holiday feeling of condescension I get from watching a group of silly women gush and jump and scream and cry and raise their hands to the Heavens over Oprah’s favorite panini maker.

But, each year, I’m also sucked in to all the shininess and find myself making a note about at least one of the “things”. I research and sometimes….I even buy. I hate myself for it, but I do. At least I don’t gush, though. I refuse to gush.

And then today, I stumbled upon a column written by a gal named Lisa Kogan. In my perfect world, I would write like Lisa Kogan. She says in one sentence what I need paragraphs to say. She’s witty, smart, natural, and fun. She says what I’m thinking most of the time. She writes about living her own life by her own rules and I just love that.

But, come to find out, Kogan writes for O Magazine. Damm you, Oprah Winfrey! If loving you is wrong, I guess I just can’t be right. But I’m not gushing. Or shaking. Or shopping for show outfits.

Immobilized by canned tomatoes

Crushed tomatoes. Diced tomatoes. Chopped tomatoes. Stewed tomatoes. Whole tomatoes. Tomato sauce. Tomato puree. Tomato paste. Big cans. Little cans. Low sodium. Organic. Brands. Brands. And more brands.

All dangerously close to the spaghetti sauce that could have solved this entire thing.

But I was bound and determined to find what the recipe called for.

So, I stared at my list again. I breathed. And took it one can at a time.

A blur to the right heading towards me. A person. A man. I backed up a bit as a polite gesture and smiled into the air. I didn’t want to take my eyes off the tomatoes and lose my place.

The blur walked in front of me to the shelves of whatever it was he needed to the left, looked for a second, then walked, I think empty-handed, back to the right to rejoin his awaiting cart.

I heard, “Excuse me.”

“No, excuse ME.” A reflex.

28-ounce cans of whole tomatoes. Nope, definitely not it.

“I’m sorry. I just keep bothering you.”

“That’s okay.”

He was back. And not such a blur this time. I looked away first to clear my mind of tomatoes, and then looked at him. He was the cutest, in that understated way that just adds to the cuteness, thing I’ve ever seen.

He stood to the left for a second or two. Green beans, I think.

And, again, empty-handed to his cart.

“Really sorry.”

“Really okay.”

He smiled like he didn’t expect me to take him so well.

I didn’t want to stare or make him think I might stalk him later in the checkout line or the parking lot, the poor guy, so I went back to my study of canned tomatoes.

Back again.

“You know, I guess I’m just going to keep walking back and forth in front of you. I really am sorry.”

“It’s really okay. I’m having a tomato dilemma anyway.”

He laughed.

I laughed.

“It’s all just too much, isn’t it?”

“Yes! Yes, it is.”

I eventually got the proper tomatoes. I don’t remember if he found what he needed or not. And this morning I can’t really recall what he looked like. I do remember tall. And sandy-colored short hair. And polite. And funny. And entirely too close.

Moments like this happen about twice a year and shake up my asexuality. Damm this green bean shopper and Gary Allan videos.

David Dwiggins and the Manila American Cemetery

Some years ago, a Hoosier named David Dwiggins moved to the Philippines. And some years ago, he visited the Manila American Cemetery and took a picture of the grave of an Ohio serviceman.

Most of the American servicemen buried there are still listed as Missing in Action. He researched and sent the picture of the grave and a letter to the family in Ohio.

He repeated the process again and again, mostly targeting Indiana graves, and now spends most of his time gathering information, udpating his website, and contacting the families of the men who have been lost for over 50 years.

From the Indiana Soldiers and Sailors video archive.
(The song choice of Dixie is few hundred miles off, but the sentiment is perfect.)

Some other articles about Dwiggins' work:

WTHR: Hoosire Makes WWII Connection Overseas, November 2007

AP: Man Searches for Indiana Families of Soldiers Buried in Philippines, January 2005

Dave's Own Story

**David Dwiggins passed away August 13, 2016, at the too-young age of 66. His work was a blessing to so many families. You can read his memorial on Find A Grave's website here. 

Driving off cliffs

I wonder how old I’ll be when I'm comfortable standing up for myself. Last night, I woke up three times from dreams of driving off a cliff or a winding road or a dead-end road. When I looked up the meaning to see if there was something I should know, I found out two things:

Driving indicates being on a life/purpose journey and making progress. Driving off a cliff indicates being frustrated because of loss of recognition or rewards or personal power.

Dead-on.

The contract company for which I work right now professes to be the number one IT consulting firm in North America but seems to thrive on hiring unqualified and unintelligible people from India. I thought these times had passed, but apparently they haven’t yet learned that it costs more, in the long run, to hire an Indian than it does to hire an American.

People were moved around last week and three Indians were moved into the 15 X 15 lab I’ve been in. No problem under normal circumstances, but there are no windows and no air circulation, just body odors and HEAT.

I’ve learned that they like the heat set to at least 80 degrees, because they’re not used to the cold. “Allergic to the cold” is the phrase that was used. THAT they could express in understandable English.

Driving off a cliff.

It’s not politically correct, I know. I’m intelligent and have been exposed to a lot in my day, so I know my civilized reaction should be to accept cultural differences and celebrate and learn from them.

But working for this number one IT consulting firm has become a little like working the McDonalds drive-thru. Although, there, I’d at least get some fresh air.

So, I voiced my opinion; I asked to be moved; I asked to turn down the air (which they conveniently didn’t understand no matter how enthusiastically I pointed to the thermostat and acted out my discomfort); and then I asked to at least move next to the door where they had set up shop. (I should have just turned the air down, but it wouldn’t have solved anything. The especially stinky boy with the sweater draped across his chair constantly complained of being cold.)

In return, I got pitiful looks and hushed conversations in their native tongues about (I have no doubt) how miserable I must be to be the meanest, most horrible person in the world.

Driving off a cliff again.

No control, no power. And the queasy feeling that I’ve asked for too much, that I’ve expressed too much opinion.

I feel the doom of this project that started out so well. And I’m driving off cliffs in my sleep because of yet another impossible office space/cubicle/payroll FREAK situation, ignoring God and knowing I’m not where I belong.

Although, each FREAK does end up in my Freakish Magnetism chronicle. Not exactly power, but internal passive-agressive progress.

Lasts and Firsts

Yesterday, Austin had senior pictures taken and we went to dinner and Blockbuster. It was the first four hours we’ve spent together outside of the house in months. Austin was damn near pleasant to me (he’s always pleasant to everyone else). Another last and first.

And I’m going to say it was a perfect evening. Even an encounter with a stupid girl didn't taint the festivities, because the conversation was so entertaining that I had to write it down. Good times and material.

Prestige Portrait Studio hires professional photographers, but the people who work in the customer service area are apparently high school kids. They hum and sing and pull each other’s hair and giggle and generally behave like children attempting unsuccessfully to be grown.

Barbie-Adult-Wanna-Be: Name.

Me: Karen Rutherford

BAWB: Phone number.

Me:  317-410-3599.

BAWB: Really? That’s the number we’ve been calling all week to remind you of the appointment. Each time we call, someone tells us it’s the wrong number.

Me: Well, that's really odd because I haven’t received any calls. I have my phone right here. Do you want to try dialing it?

She does. It rings.

BAWB: I guess you need to find out who’s been answering your phone then.

Me: Huh?

BAWB: Someone keeps answering and telling us that we have the wrong number. You need to find out who’s doing that.

Me: Huh?

She started to repeat it. But the thought of that gave me those chills I get at the thought of fingernails scratching a chalkboard.

Me: I really don’t think that makes sense. It sounds like whoever called was just misdialing.

BAWB: We have 317-410-3599, like you told us. That’s the number we’ve been calling.

No matter how many times we did this, there was never going to be a happy ending. Even Austin was shaking his head at me in his familiar and unspoken “just let it go” affirmation.

So, I went to my happy place of looking forward to dinner at KJ’s (practicing to sound like a regular) in less than an hour.

I could eat every meal (if not for the awkward explanation I'd have to provide the loan officer) for the rest of my life at Kona Jack’s in Indianapolis. Last night was Sesame-seared Scallops, and Spider Rolls, and Mona Kona Miso soup. Oh My!

It’ll take me a week to get over it. And lucky for me, that’s exactly the amount of time I’ll need, too, because Lisa Munniksma and I have an appointment for dinner there on our way to a Spirit and Place Festival event on the 16th.

Writers' Center of Indiana website!

Less than two years ago, the Writers’ Center of Indiana sent a survey to all its members asking for feedback, suggestions, complaints, etc. From what I heard, we responded in droves with more than they probably had anticipated.

Typically, nobody expects much to happen from mail-in surveys. You just do it for the exercise and to get things off your chest. Then, you stick a stamp on it and don’t give it another thought.

Well, just when you least expected it!

The WC website has a new calendar of events and lists new clubs, new resources, new contests, and new opportunities to publish work.

The organization and appearance haven’t changed, but it’s easy to use, CURRENT, and a great site for Indy writers and fans of Indy writers. Their new notification system of readings, speakers, workshops and events is timely and full of great information.

I filled out the feedback form on the site to commend the webmaster. Now, if whoever’s in charge of The Fiction Group – I just want to know what they do – would respond to email….

I’ll save that for another survey. For now, I'm too happy about adding the website back to my Favorites list. :)

Reading

I love reading weekends and this one was tailor-made for it. Not quite cold, but close enough. Yellow and red leaves floating to the ground outside the picture window. A clean (enough) house. A comfy, over-stuffed chair. Two-sizes-too-big pajamas. A lap dog. And a big cup of hot chocolate. All boring and cliche, I know.

The first book I read was fiction: Feast of Love by Charles Baxter. The premise was brilliant: a man and a woman telling their very different accounts of a specific event in their relationship. But then new characters came into play and I can’t even explain what happened. What a chore. It was confusing in the worst way. Nothing felt connected. I lost the point, the purpose, the meaning. I kept thinking everything would come together and make sense in the end, but 300 pages later, it never did. I did enjoy crossing it off my to-read list and putting it in my “take to Half Price books to trade” bag, though.

The second book I read was non-fiction: A Book by Desi Arnaz. It was fascinating and surprisingly well written. It was factual and chronological to a fault, yet human, and, at times, funny. He was really just giving an account of his life and all I wanted was a different ending: Lucy and Desi together till the end just like I know Lucy and Ricky were. I wish he’d lived to write his sequel (which he was going to call Another Book).

I finished the weekend watching The Letter, a movie with Bette Davis. Over-acting and dramatization at its 1940s finest. I loved every minute of it.

It is weekends like this I know I’ll miss when I’m dead.

Hoping for the best

How does it work? There’s an obvious, open-and-shut case. A district attorney decides not to prosecute. Based on what? The law? I wonder.

A case struck me recently about a public school bus driver here who left a 5-year-old child on the bus all day.

The little girl sat right behind the bus driver, but never said, “Hey don’t forget me!” They say she was extremely shy, which makes that understandable, so the kid spent six hours sleeping and playing on the bus. And she’s JUST FINE!

Now, I do understand that the driver is responsible and should be punished. If this were her only questionable incident (prior issues have come to light), one might expect a job loss or at least a revocation of her bus driving privileges for a period of time.

In this case, though, the bus driver is being prosecuted for neglect of a dependent, which is a Class D Felony and could result in 6 years in prison. The school system is in an affluent suburb, but, it is still a public school system. There is nobody to rush to the driver’s defense. There is nobody with any power to sway the DA not to prosecute.

Yet, nobody died or was even seriously injured.

So how does a person understand a 2005 case in which an English teacher at an obscure private school in Georgia was not prosecuted for making inexcusable, blatantly neglectful, and fatal (two boys died) decisions while leading an outdoor excursion for the school?

Death. Permanent psychological injury to a dozen or so kids and their families. Prior issues came to light in this case as well. Still, no prosecution. No loss of job. Not even a legal demand to stop future excursions.

And, now, two years later, since there is no record or even a resume ding to prevent it, this teacher, with the judgment and conscience of a toddler, was able to seek out and land a job as the official Outdoor Coordinator with another obscure school in the middle of nowhere.

So, how to understand....

I can only gather that district attorneys pick and choose what they will spend their time and resources prosecuting based on both legal and non-legal reasons.

And that, because of the non-legal reasons, there will never be unambiguous justice throughout our legal system. It’s just the way it is and has been particularly since the beginning of cronyism, money and the law.

So, lucky are we bystanders and witnesses who just get to keep hoping for the best.

When's college start?

For days now (I’m thinking more than a week’s worth), my son's guitar has been sitting in its stand in front of the spare bedroom closet. Each morning and night, I fumble around it getting or returning clothes. And each day, I say something to him about moving it.

Yesterday, I tripped over it. I knew this would happen.

“I TOLD YOU a hundred times TO MOVE THAT DAMN THING. GET IN THERE AND MOVE IT. NOWWWW!”

He reappeared and said, “I moved it by the elliptical. There’s no danger of you being anywhere near it now.”

It’s my own fault, really.

I curse you, TV Land!

I can’t stop watching I Love Lucy reruns. In fact, I can watch the same ones over and over and over. And what’s worse -- in the same day! For example, the Ricky Asks for a Raise episode came on at today at 10am, then again at around noon, then again around 5pm, then again just now. I shouldn’t know this. It’s insane. Literally. The definition of it.

I did turn the TV off today, though. I have three clients with tight deadlines right now, each of whom I’m trying to get to a happy place before NaNoWriMo starts on the 1st, so I put on some CDs and worked. I kept working after the CDs stopped, and I listened to what I think are squirrels playing on the roof, in the crawl space, and on the front porch. They’re in nut-hunting season and love our yard. Almost as much as the two neighborhood cats do.

I’m starting NaNoWriMo again with good intentions. At least I already have my outline and my head start this year. It’s also cool weather, perfect for vanilla chai tea and my laptop at Lulu’s.

If only I can tear myself away from the possibility of another Lucy episode. I wish TV Land would play The Lucy Show, too, though. That would be nice.

According to some research, the best way to stop watching television is to wean yourself from it. For example, turn on the set a half hour later each evening and turn it off a half hour earlier than normal. And do this in weekly increments to prevent withdrawal symptoms. Or give yourself an allotment of TV hours each week and decrease that number every two weeks.

Common withdrawal symptoms are insomnia, emotional volatility, anxiety, depression, irritability, loss of appetite. I already have most of these, with the perimenopause and all, but I look forward to the loss of appetite.

Who am I kidding? Another Andy Griffith episode just came on.

Dr. Eugene White

When we moved to Indianapolis from Horn Lake, Austin was in the middle of 7th grade. The teachers at Eastwood Middle School made him feel like a rock star, instead of the new kid from the South that he was.

Just two months later, Austin was nominated by a collection of his teachers for the annual Citizenship Award.

There was, of course, the usual middle school ceremony. Pictures were taken, awards and pins were distributed, speeches were made and parental applause was predictable.

But what I will never forget is a speech by Dr. Eugene White, who was the Superintendent of Washington Township schools at the time. As per usual, I cried. (In my own defense, I had been racked with pent-up guilt and fear about the move here.)

Dr. White spoke to the kids, of course, telling them how proud he wanted them to be of their accomplishments and contributions. They had defined themselves as examples now, and much would be expected of them. They had bright, bright futures.

Then, he addressed the parents. We were to be credited for our children’s moment of excellence. He told each child to turn to his parents and hug us and say thank you. We were the keys to their success. We were their champions - their biggest fans – and they were never to forget that.

I started to write Dr. White a letter once, but I thought he probably got tired of reading the same old thing about his gifts of hope and principle from grateful parents.

Besides, he’s an incredibly busy man having since moved on to the Indianapolis Public School system, where his tireless and sometimes thankless work, not to mention his character, is desperately needed.

In today’s Indianapolis Star, there is yet another article that defines who this man is. He has refused a pay raise for himself this year. The Board gave him $17,000 cash bonuses for meeting academic goals, but he declined the pay raise they offered saying that he didn’t feel right accepting the money amidst grueling teacher contract negotiations.

Dr. White is still a fresh air of faith for me.