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A Boy and His Ghosts b/w My Haunted House

This is kind of a double story. In the spirit of Halloween, I thought I’d share the stories of my little “ghost whisperer” and my haunted house, and how the two inevitably collided to create a whopper of a ghost story.

My son has been “seeing ghosts” since, oh, about the age of 6 months that I or my family can really remember. It all started when I moved into our old apartment in Barrington. I never really liked the building, there was a weird feeling I got every time I opened the common door but I put it down as bad-neighbor-itis. My neighbors in several different apartments weren’t exactly dream tenants. But I liked my little apartment, I’d just got out of my folks’ house, again, after moving back home to save some money. And I was enjoying being out on my own with my two boys.

My little guy, then six months, would be on his changing table, and suddenly start clapping his hands and tapping his feet. Not just clapping and tapping, but keeping a certain rhythm, like – clap, clap, tap; clap clap clap, tap tap, clap clap, tap, etc. Then he would burst into giggles or alternately, frown or furrow his brow. I would say, watcha’ doing, baby? And he’d stare at the ceiling, giggling or furrowing, all the while as if following instructions. Eventually he started talking, and once in the middle of the night during a diaper change he said, “I not afwaid, Mama. Not afwaid of dat man.” My blood froze, and I said, “What man, honey?” And he pointed, up into a dark corner of the ceiling. “Dat man. I not afwaid.” Eeewuggabuggashivva!

I told my folks and my other son, and they said, oh, it’s just your imagination. But eventually, he did it or something like it when they were watching him, more than once, and made believers out of them. He told me one day he wanted to go down to the woods behind the apartment building. It was dusk, and chilly, October I think. I said okay, and he took me by the hand with a firm purpose and started pulling me toward the woods. “We haffa find Mikey, Mama.” Mikey?? He’d never even heard that name. “Who’s Mikey, sweetie?” “A wittle boy, and we haffa find him. He’s inna woods.” Man, did I have the willies… my little 2 year old traipsing about in the woods, pulling me behind him, looking for a boy named Mikey in the dark. I played along and eventually I just couldn’t take anymore, I was so creeped out. I said, “Honey, do you see Mikey?” He said, “No, Mama, but he’s here.” I finally got him back to the house.

This kind of behavior went on in different forms all through his toddlerhood. Once, on the bus when he was 3 or 4, we were in the back seat and he was playing with his matchbox cars. You know, “Vroomm, vroom, burrrrrr, burrrrrr, burrrrrr...” It was very quiet on the bus, there were only about three more stops, it was dusk time again, and there were about 10-15 people on the bus, all being very quiet. All you could hear was some murmuring by passengers and my boy making soft little car noises. Suddenly he stopped, looked up, and very matter-of-factly, said, “Wow--there’s a lot of ghosts on this bus. [then back to his cars]… Vrooom, vroom, brrrrrr, burrrr….” You think it was quiet on that bus before he said that? You could have heard a pin drop afterward. Every single person got off at the next stop.

He’s never been afraid of them, either; well – except for one specific time. It was about 2 in the afternoon on a beautiful sunny day. I was watching him from the front yard. I saw him freak out for a minute while riding his bike in front of the house. He jumped off his bike and came running down the street toward me, looking over his shoulder. When he finally got to me, I said, “What’s the matter, shug?”

“Whoa, that was a scary ghost!”

“Oh, no,” I said, trying not to sound disturbed, “Where is it now?”

“Oh, it went away,” he motioned with his hand, up toward the sky. “It’s gone now. I’m going to ride my bike again, okay, Mom? I’ll be back in a little while!” (All smiles now). Oi!

I have several other stories I could tell but in the interest of keeping your interest I’ll assume you got the point. My little boy sees dead people. He never even said “ghost” until he was 3 or 4 and saw his first Casper cartoon, and learned the word. It was always “man,” “lady,” “boy,” or “girl.” Except no one was there!

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When I bought my house in 2002 it was a dump, though structurally sound. It hadn’t been redecorated or renovated since probably 1970 or so. There was three inch thick, filthy dark brown shag carpet throughout the entire house; where there wasn’t nasty carpet, old mustard colored linoleum lay. Patterned wallpaper in hues of brown, dark green, dark orange and beige covered almost every wall. There were even curtains to match the wallpaper in the living room! Fingerhut, circa 1975, for sure.

The house was an estate house, meaning the previous owner had died and her family was selling it off. No one wanted to bother fixing it up (so I got it for a song). I didn’t care, I adored the house. The day I drove up to have it shown to me, the season’s first daffodils were poking out of the side garden as if to say, “If we’re here, it can’t be so bad!” I felt the love. I didn’t know anything about the former resident except that she was an old widow, and her and her husband’s names since they were on the deed. I met her son only once, at the signing. He seemed nice enough, if ashamed at selling his childhood home for so little.

Anyway, I felt her presence, Evelyn (the widow), the day after I signed on the house. That night of the signing, I ripped out every piece of brown shag carpet. Living room, dining room, stairway, hall. I ripped out all the foam the next morning. That afternoon I had the wallpaper down. I stood in the living room and dramatically announced, “Evelyn, no offense, but these hideous curtains have got to go!” No sooner had the words left my mouth than there was a huge crash from upstairs. I ran up to see what it was and never found a thing. Humbled, I said out loud, “Okay, well, the sheers can stay!” According to the deed, Evelyn and Gerald had been sole owners since its construction in 1945. Clearly, she wasn’t going to just “leave.”

Before my youngest was born I would have said, “Hoo-ha! No such thing as ghosts!” But seeing him in action has given me a newfound respect for the supernatural and so I tried my best not to “dis” Evelyn’s house. Whenever I did, some weird thing happened. When the cheesy miniature sink in the second bathroom broke (again!) and flooded my kitchen, I stormed around screaming obscenities for a half hour when suddenly the power went out. Just like that. I still have no good explanation -- the fuses had been brand new. When I got a splinter from the wooden floor that I still hadn’t refinished and cursed her for ever putting carpeting over it in the first place, my cell phone came flying off the entertainment center and whacked me upside my head. This is no joke!

But the biggest creepy tale is compliments of my little ghost-seeing phenomenon. It goes like this:

When we first bought the house, I had so much renovating to do that I left our stuff in storage until the walls, floors, etc. could be finished. So we ended up sharing an air mattress which at this time was in my youngest’s room. One evening I went to take a shower and left my son (at the time, 3 1/2) in the room, playing on the air bed. As I got out of the shower, I could hear him talking away, but not as if he were playing. It was like he was having a two way conversation, but there was only his voice. He was talking and laughing away, then pausing, as if listening, then laughing again. I could have sworn he was on the telephone. I thought, Oh man, what now? I walked in his room and saw just him on the bed, with no toys or anything. I instantly got chicken skin all over.

“What are you doing, baby?”

“Talking, mommy.”

“To who?”

“To a girl. And a baby. A baby boy. ‘Cept he can’t talk. And she’s holding him. She lives here.”

I didn’t want many more details, eewuggabug...well, you know. I just said, that’s nice sweetie, are they still here? And he said, no, they were gone, they left when I came in the room.

I wanted to just not think about it since it was going to be a long night in an empty house with no TV or adult company to keep me from getting creeped out. So I put it out of my mind.

About 3 or 4 months later or so, I went out jogging. I don’t normally jog in my own neighborhood, since I usually go jogging during work hours. But I had a free weekend and it was perfect chilly early spring weather. I took a route that led me into the cemetery that’s about a mile or so from my house. As I jogged through the winding little pretend roads, I was absentmindedly reading names, knowing I didn’t know anyone buried here. Halfway through the cemetery, I came across a large center headstone with Evelyn and Gerald’s last name, Baston. In front of that were their first names & dates. Gerald, died 1982 at the age of 69 or 70 something and Evelyn, died 2001 at the age of 92. Aha! I thought, here she is! The lady of the house. Touched, I stopped to pay a little respect, say hi, tell her that her crocuses were up. Then I saw the other granite markers. Loving Daughter, Laura. And Baby Boy Baston.

To tell you that my blood froze, that my heart skipped, is an understatement. My fingers went numb. Time stopped. It all came back to me, that night in my son’s room, listening to him talk, and him telling me who he talked to. There are few moments in my life that felt so profound as the time I stood there looking down on those little markers. I don’t know how long I stood there but when I finally snapped out of it I realized I was weeping. I’m not sure why, but I knelt down and said, “I’m sorry” to Evelyn’s headstone and jogged, or should I say, raced, off back home. Later that spring I brought her some of her daffodils, and I’ve done the same thing every spring since.

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Off and on there were little things that convinced me Evelyn was still hanging around, a lot at first, than as time went by and she was finally convinced that I wasn’t going to turn her beloved house upside down, she drifted off, crossed over, what-have-you. I haven’t really felt her around lately at all. I think since I put the garden in, she’s given it all over to me, satisfied that I’m doing an “okay” job without her.

My son has also pretty much stopped seeing ghosts. At least he never mentions it anymore. I’d like to think that they will leave him alone from now on. As he gets older it will be harder to explain the phenomenon to others without them thinking he’s insane. I’ve never talked about it in detail with him, and he never brings up any previous incidents. This past year he has made maybe two references to ghosts, and they’ve been pretty generic.

But our family will always have this most amazing, true life ghost story to tell. When my son is older I’ll tell him too, and see if he remembers it at all.

Posted by at 04:07 PM | Comments (5)

Liberal Religion??

Um, excuse me, but what? Yes, I saw a bumper sticker calling all who were seeking a liberal religion to visit a certain website. It got me thinking. Wouldn’t a liberal religion be an oxymoron?

Websters:
RELIGION\n 1) a) the service and worship of God or the supernatural*, b) commitment or devotion to religious faith or observance; 2) an institutionalized system of religious attitudes, beliefs and practices; 3) scrupulous conformity

LIBERAL\adj 1) of, relating to, or based on the liberal arts; 2) generous, open handed; 3) lacking moral restraint; 4) not literal or strict; 5) broad-minded, not bound by authoritarianism

I was born and raised an Irish Catholic. Oi! Some may disagree but in my mind there are not many more stifling religions than Catholicism. You are taught as a Catholic that Catholicism is the only religion that’s right. We are told to tolerate the other religions, but to suffer in our birthright of guilt with pride knowing we are right. We have more rules than just about any other religion of its genre. Sacraments, holy water, holy wine & wafers, vestments, etc. (It’s no wonder that I defected shortly after moving out of my folks’ house. I’ve never been much of one for rules.)

I’ve learned a little about other religions, too; I’ve attended services for Methodists, Lutherans, all kinds of different Baptist religions. I’ve read about Judaism, Islam, and all religions seem to sing the same song. Law! Order! The sacred word of God Almighty!

Religion is all about rules. Religion is all about “no.” No, you can’t steal, cheat, commit adultery, worship another god. Religion is all about “you must.” You must love your neighbor, worship God, tithe, keep holy the Sabbath, etc. Religion is all about order and doctrine and oppression. There is no room for liberalism in a real religion.

Someone who’s looking for a liberal religion obviously wants an authority figure to tell them it’s okay. They must be seeking justification - It’s okay to smoke pot, be gay, have premarital sex, whatever it is that the traditional churches say it’s not okay to do or be. You don’t have to go to confession, face east, observe feast days, eschew birth control, learn any sacraments or practice celibacy. It’s okay to not have rules, as long as you’re sitting in a building with other like-minded God lovers, swaying and singing Jesus ditties, giving, loving, holding hands.

That’s all lovely and I totally condone sitting in a building with other like-minded folks getting all fuzzy with the Lord. But -- if you don’t want to follow a doctrine or rules, don’t pretend to be practicing religion. Be a believer, love God, spread the word, WWJD, all that jazz. But don’t kid yourself into thinking it’s a religion. It’s just a God group. Don’t mock all the rule following, sacrificing, guilt suffering, real religion members by claiming to have one. For Christ’s sake!

*In this post I am referring only to religions involving God and/or Christ, i.e., not Wicca or Buddhism, etc.

Posted by at 02:11 PM | Comments (5)

The Way My Mind Works - Chapter 1: Laugh--a Lot

Everyone has to laugh. Here's my treat to you -- some websites and/or pages that made me spew coffee all over my keyboard.

http://www.rockandrollconfidential.com/hall/hall_detail.php?dd_keyid=612
I can't tell you how glad I was that my bud sent this one to me on a day when I was the only one at work. I sat at my desk for a solid half hour laughing out loud. (yeah, your tax dollars) Good God!
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http://www.seacoastonline.com/news/elliott/4_12elliott.htm
One of my personal favorites from one of my personal favorites.
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http://www.mulletsgalore.com/
No explanation needed here. If you are too good to occasionally laugh at other people, don't bother clicking.
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http://www.foundmagazine.com/
This one is simply nice. You can find a lot of laughs, but there's a lot to ponder, too.
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Have a great weekend, folks.

Posted by at 04:18 PM | Comments (2)

Mary Had a Little Tykes Incorporated Brand Aware Media Saturated Lamb

I wanted to follow up on my previous post, Baa Baa Red, White and Blue Sheep. This is because I don’t think I really stated my issue with the advertising media in that piece. I don’t have a real problem with actual advertisements, commercials, pop-ups, etc. It’s not the content -- I could care less. No slick ad will ever convince me to take on a car payment, or that a ten dollar bottle of Tide is better than the two-fifty store brand. The reason I cut off my cable, threw out my magazines and ignore advertising in general is simply that I refuse to give the bastards their money’s worth. It’s a spite issue. I spew venom at their life’s work. I show them my big white butt.

These Madison Avenue jackasses so worship the almighty dollar that they have sold their souls for it; they have no consciences. Studies have been published, again and again, documenting the damage that oversaturation of advertising does to children. Other countries limit or ban altogether advertising directed at children. Holland, for one -- over there, the sales of cowboy play sets and baseballs is higher than Bratz or G.I. Joes. Here, in the good old U.S.A., of course, we’d rather dine with Nazis than challenge the first Amendment.

In my opinion, marketing directed at children is the media’s version of child pornography. The difference being that they exploit our children on a much more insidious level. We cannot prosecute them. The damage is not visible. The children do not develop trauma symptoms. They instead are filled with subconscious messages: misinterpreted desires to be superior, superficially beautiful, satiated; or even worse, fears of being outcast, unaccepted, and unloved. Here is a direct quote from one marketer: "Kids are the most pure consumers you could have," says Debra McMahon, a vice-president who follows media for Mercer Management Consulting. "They tend to interpret your ad literally. They are infinitely open." The ones who do have children of their own, God help them.

Anyway, I ignore advertising. I don’t buy something because someone tells me to. (And as someone advised on the Sheep post,) I teach my children not to buy something because someone tells them too -- with actions and words. If they ask for something and they can’t have it, I simply say, “no.”

My problem is, I am always having to say, “no.” I can’t stand it anymore. I suppose the marketing bastards are starting to get their way with me after all, because I’m starting to feel inferior, not good enough, a bad mom. I’m not talking about my 20 year old, who has thankfully matured out of the label-whore phase. He knows better than to ask Mommy Poor-Ass for anything frivolous outside of his birthday or Christmas (he just goes to Grampa). But the 7 year old is still learning my lessons. And in the meantime, he’s learning the lessons that the advertising media wants him to as well, despite my efforts.

And boy, their lessons are everywhere, 2 feet above the ground. Open your eyes next time you’re in the grocery store. Things at that level are bright, sugared, bubbly, characterized, advertised. You won’t find any generic bran flakes on the bottom shelf of the cereal aisle. The proudly displayed “NO CANDY” aisle is filled with comic books and Yu-Gi-Oh cards. (Puh-lease, don’t do me any favors, Shaw’s! I’d rather argue with my kid over a Kit-Kat bar than a freaking five-dollar pack of cards.)

My kid isn’t a grabby child, he’s not greedy. He’s easy to reason with too, and isn’t prone to fits when told no (well, sometimes in the store we’ve had our moments). I’ve done a sound enough job, I believe, of providing him with fun activities that don’t include television and other outlets that I think are unhealthy (mall-ratting, for example) so that he shouldn't be oversaturated with the effects of advertising.

It doesn't matter. The marketers find ways around the diligent policing of the mainstream advertising methods by parents. They put their messages where you aren't expecting them to be. Sure, they love it when your children sing along to their commercials or linger over their glossy ads, but they don't care how kids get the message, as long as kids get it. The messages are everywhere: inside comic books, on school bulletin boards, plastered on buses, restaurant menus, streaming from radios, characters on sneakers, in toys' bubble packages, gum wrappers. You can't buy a toy without advertisements for other toys falling out. As long as they can convince one popular child that their product is cool, they are made in the shade, because their advertising job has extended to God knows how many other children without any effort at all.

This morning's conversations with my son drove it all home to me. Here we have exchanges from throughout the morning.

S: Hey Mom, there’s these speakers that I can get for my gameboy. We need to get them!

Me: Why, hon?

S: Because they are cool, and you can’t hear the sound without them.

Me: You can hear it just fine. No speakers, sorry.
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Me: Son, I put your stuff in your second backpack because your other one needed washing.

S: Mom, I want a backpack with one strap, can you take this back?

Me: No, I can’t. Why do you want the one with one strap?

S: Because it’s cool.

Me: Sweetie, you have two backpacks and I can’t take one back. Your backpacks are just fine. We can’t buy another. Hon, you know, just because they show something on TV or somewhere else and it looks cool doesn’t mean you have to have it. It doesn’t even mean it’s really cool. Sometimes people who sell things like to make their things look really cool so kids will want to buy them. But a backpack with one strap is probably not even very useful. It would be hard to take on and off.

S: I wouldn't care, it's so cool. And I didn't see it on TV. Zak had one.
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Me: Drink your milk, babe, it’s time to go.

S: Mom, why did you buy this milk? I said I wanted the one with the funny rabbit.

Me: Son, I told you that milk costs twice as much. This milk is just as good. I’m not buying you milk that’s expensive, just because there’s a rabbit on the front. It’s the same as the cereal, remember?

S: Oh yeah. I don’t like those fake frosted flakes you buy. I only like the kind with the tiger. They’re good for you. Your kind doesn’t have vitamins and fortified!

Me: What?! Yes it does.

S: There’s no commercial that said it. Buy the tiger kind, please!

Me: No.

S: Mommy, when you ever get some money, will you buy the tiger kind, and some rabbit chocolate milk for me?

Me: (practically choke back tears). Sweetie, it’s not about the money. I told you that.

S: Dad buys the tiger kind.

Me: God.
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S: What did you pack for my lunch, Mom?

Me: Peanut butter, your favorite.

S: Thanks Mom, but next time can I get Chicken Shakers? Remember I showed you at the store?

Me: No, hon, that stuff isn’t good for you.

S: Mom! The more you shake 'em, the better you make 'em!

Me: What? Where did you hear that?

S: We sing it on the bus.

Me: God.
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I swear to you these and more conversations went down this morning. I probably said “no” or something like it about 10 times. It’s not fair. For now, I'm able to fight cartoon tigers; I know soon, though, it'll get tougher when I face Nike's Tiger. Oh well, at least he still doesn’t really know all the brand names. That’s something to be said for my efforts. I think I’m going to pack it all up and move to Holland, before the little guy starts learning those, too.

Posted by at 02:00 PM | Comments (3)

He Came From Outer Space to Save the Human Race

He came from outer space to save the human race? Perhaps not, but...

Does anyone remember Nomi? Is there anyone out there who lived the punk/new wave scene from the early 80s who didn’t know Nomi? Do they remember the Nomi Song?

Klaus Nomi was an East Coast phenomenon, when I was on the West Coast, but he was still a lightening bright current streaking through the underground of my youth. We all wore shiny black, white, and purple things. Or black, white, and red things. We dyed our hair black and forced it into ridiculous contortions. We wore garish makeup and pointy glasses and shoes and plastic bow ties and skinny ties and very large belts. Patent leather, metallic leather, white pancake makeup, black lipstick, pointy purple fingernails – all this I can trace to Nomi’s influence.

Nomi was a freak, man! And weren’t we all freaks, man? Wasn’t that why we paraded around K Street in Old Sacto, CA with our lace-up combat boots, freakish get-ups and scary music blasting from bombastic boomboxes? We were daring the general public to stare. We instigated it! We craved the indirect attention, must like Nomi must have.

My favorite mix tape of 1982 included the Dead Kennedys, Black Flag, B52’s (B.S.O.*), Bowie, Depeche Mode, Adam Ant, the Circle Jerks, Plasmatics, Cramps, and of course, Nomi. It was a coup to get your hands on some Nomi, we had the Nomi Song looped. Nomi was a little bit of happy in an otherwise pretty gloom bunch. You could smile at Nomi, after staring, that is.

If you do or don’t remember Klaus Nomi, I still recommend you see The Nomi Song, on DVD. I just watched it again, and was struck again by, well, him. The first time I saw the flick, I took in his “story”. The story of Nomi is intriguing, but the movie (a kind of documentary) leaves something to be desired if you’re looking for a lot of bio. The second viewing (last night), I was touched by how his later life so mirrored the gory glory of the 80s. Everyone he knew or met was clinging to or hopping on his bandwagon, psyched to the gills by the bright lights and promise of fame and excess – only to abandon him completely on his deathbed, terrified of contracting airborne “gay cancer.” Only the photographer who immortalized him in Nomi’s most famous photo came to visit him – and even then with an initial ulterior motive.

At least the filmmakers had the aplomb not to show the photos the photog took from the hospital.

Rent it now! “The Nomi Song” on DVD. Relive the glory of the 80s with the freakiest of freaks.

photo by Michael Halsband (c)
* B.S.O. = before selling out

Posted by at 11:01 AM | Comments (8)

Baa Baa Red, White and Blue Sheep

We know that Jell-o pudding tastes good. Chocolate pudding is always a treat. It’s creamy and delicious, and not even that guilt inducing with it’s wee little container and fat free versions, some with calcium. Yum! So why do we need Bill Cosby to sell it?

I was driving down Islington Street today and absentmindedly looking at signs. I have no idea what the product was, because it just barely caught my eye before I passed it, but the most absurd sign struck me. It said “Dale Earnhardt, Jr. Banks on it.” Well, I thought, what the hell? What could Dale be “banking” on, a bank? And why would I want to do my banking where Dale Earnhardt, Jr. banks?

When I got back to my computer, I googled the sponsors Dale Earnhardt, Jr. currently endorses:

Anheuser-Busch: Personal and racing team sponsorship through 2007.
Kraft: "Team Kraft" drivers.
Chevrolet: Team and personal sponsorship.
Drakkar (men's cologne): Since 2003.
Enterprise Rent-A-Car: Since 2003.
Gillette: "Young Guns" promotion, new 2004.
Wrangler Jeans: Multiyear deal, new 2004.
Remington Arms: Since 2000.
Polaris: ATVs, new 2004, multiyear contract.
NAPA Auto Parts: Since 2003.
Nextel: Linked to Earnhardt through major NASCAR sponsorship.
Action Performance: Clothing licensee, through 2005.
VF Knitwear: Clothin
Nabisco: snack stuff

So it wasn’t even a bank! I’ve always had a rather extreme disdain for the advertising media, in all its insidious forms, especially when directed at kids. Ewuggabuggashivva – don’t even get me started on Ronald McEvilDonald (side note: Madison Avenue actually has a term for children through whom they woo their parents, 'backseat consumers' – cute, huh?) With celebrity endorsements, I just can’t help but laugh. Do they really think I’m going to hook up with American Express because Ellen does a cute little dance? We are supposed to believe the mouthpieces simply because they are famous.

Sadly, celebrity endorsements really do work, which is why they persist. This is sad, in my eyes, because it shows what weak sensibilities the American consumer has. The general public is so easily led – look around at not only the celebrity endorsements, but the self-help books, “life” coaches, motivational seminars, etc. The advertising and promotion business is probably the biggest business in the USA.

Here is what I have done to prevent my family as much as possible from our lives being interrupted by the pervasive, evil advertising media. First – I cut off the cable. I got so tired of corporate America telling my family what to buy, and paying them so much money for the privilege, that I finally told the cable company to come and get their box (yes, it was that long ago).

I told my son, at the time 14 years old, that I was doing it, and asked him if he was going to be really upset about not having TV (in our apartment at the time, the only reception we got was PBS). He shrugged and said that he didn’t really care. We’ve always been more music-oriented anyway, and found ourselves listening to CDs together after the baby was asleep instead of watching the tube. So we did it – and we never missed it.

About two years ago, my father presented me with a set of rabbit ears, the kind you can get for $25.00 – seems he was tired of having “nothing to do” when he and Mom came over to visit. (My father is a dyed-in-the-wool TV addict). So, I gave in, and now we have ABC, CBS and NBC as well as Maine and New Hampshire PBS stations.

My little boy doesn’t watch anything on the network stations, so I don’t have to worry about his exposure to advertising, although he gets more than his share at his dad’s house (note to self – must work on his dad!). When I’m watching TV, which is never until my son is in bed, I always try to mute out the ads. Most times, I’ll get up and do something else during the ads (with 6 pets and a 7 year old, there’s always something to do!).

Another trick is to lay off the magazines. That one is a little more difficult as I’m a Country Living junkie. The other mags, though, are nothing but advertising missiles. Go ahead, grab your Woman’s Day, and count the ads. Disgusting! You are paying for that! Also - never, ever pick up a "People" or "Us" or like magazine and stay away from shows like Entertainment Tonight. This will allow you to form a neutral opinion on celebrities, or even better, a "who the hell cares?" attitude.

Come on, America, let your own brain lead your spending habits. Isn’t the generic brand just as good as the name brand? Do you really need that Citibank card just because their ad portrays a really happy family growing old together just the way you always wanted to? And read your city’s water & sewer report. I’ll be willing to bet your tap water is just as good as Aquafina.

Lastly, I’ll leave you with this excerpt from the blog of Jeremy Zawodny, though the real author is unknown. As the author leaves behind the influences of corporate advertising, he/she has this final goodbye:
'I just feel bad for those of you I'm leaving behind. You'll be wearing your Slave Labor Nikes, sweating under a Third World Vest, listening to Everqueer or Fratboy Slim, your hair styled stupidly with gasoline and aborted pig placentas, trying to choke down a Double Meat Fuck Splattered Cow Testicles On The Slaughterhouse Floor Pus Coagulated Lactacious Secretion Yellow Dye #2 Deluxe. Man, will you be looking dumb. It makes me want to cry. You poor, oversugared demographic you. You're filling your apartments, your bodies, and your minds with useless junk. You stagger under your own weight, throwing money in random directions until you collapse and die, buried by a bunch of people who you failed to create meaningful human bonds with, who forget about you on the way home from the funeral.'

Posted by at 04:09 PM | Comments (7)

When, George? When Are You Going to Say "When"??

I work for the military. I was a military brat, all my life, moving where Dad was told to go. Sometimes Dad and Mom would get an assignment they'd asked for, sometimes not. Regardless, it was never an assignment I'd wanted. I never wanted to move - I didn't adjust well to change. I hated being a miltary brat. That's why I didn't ever "sign on the line" in the recruiter's office. But oddly enough, I couldn't entirely pull myself away from service altogether. I've worked for the military for 20 years now, including time in high school. Now, I look back on my childhood and can appreciate the time I got to spend in Italy, Guam, California, etc. and I love my father and mother for the sacrifices they made in the 20-plus years they gave to the Air Force.

Just because I am loyal to my service, though, doesn't by any means make me a hero. I received this email from an active duty colleague. I think it says everything. Her email is as follows (I didn't change a thing):

To All,

This is an email from my very close friend who is currently serving in Iraq. She is a very brave women to volunteer for this deployment. All of them over there are brave. Pray for them and count your blessing every day.

-------------------------------------------

Well, last night I had my first up close and personal look at the human cost of this war. Last night we preformed the patriot detail, a time to honor those who’ve giving the ultimate price for OIF. The 5 marines and 2 Iraqi police that were killed by the car bombed in Ramada on Sat/Sun during the referendum vote were flown out of here last night. There were about 100 people that came to honor these fallen soldiers. We marched out to the C-117 and formed 2 lines on each side of the ramp on the aircraft. As the cold silver caskets were carried onto the plane we all do a 3 second, “present arms” (or salute) and when they’re out of sight, we do a 3 second, “order arms” (drop your salute). We did that 7 times for each casket not knowing who they were or who was waiting on their loved to return. After they were all loaded on the plane we walked inside passing each casket, with the label “unidentified” taped to them. They were unrecognizable and no flags were draped around the caskets because they couldn’t tell who the Americans were and who the Iraqi’s were. We had a short prayer for the soldiers and walked off the plane. As we drove home, none of us said a word and we were all probably thinking the same thing…that could be us, or someone we loved. I know the cost of this war is great but when you see the cold silver caskets, it seems like the cost is too great. I’m sure they all served their country proudly, but I know they didn’t want to leave like that. Keep all the soldiers, marines and airmen in your prayers, and don’t let anyone forget what this war/peace process is still costing us everyday.

Also on the plane was a casket that wasn’t given military honors and casket that held a dead detainee/insurgent. We had to wait for this casket to be loaded and secured before we could honor our fallen heroes. I don’t know the story behind the dead insurgent or why we were even transporting him…it believe it must have been the person in the car with the car bomb, but I don’t know for sure.

We’re here because these brave soldier and airman volunteered to defend their country. If people ask you why we’re here…don’t let them forget about the one’s that follow the orders to defend and protect the US against all enemies, foreign and domestic. We took the fight to the terrorist so you wouldn’t have chaos in the streets of America and more dead American citizens…that’s why we’re here. God Bless them all~

Very Respectfully,
TSgt Jennifer Williamson

Posted by at 10:00 AM | Comments (8)

Public School or Public Enemy?

I’m noticing a trend in the schooling of America’s children. More of it is being done in the home. So much more, that people are actually signing their kids up to be home schooled in other peoples’ homes. Is public school really that bad?

Now, don’t get me wrong, I have plenty of bones to pick with certain aspects of public school. However, most of my bones are directed at individual staff members or individual school policies, and the political climates of certain school districts. I really don’t have many bones at all to pick with the public school system in general.

We have it pretty good here in the U. S. of A. We are one of the privileged developed countries where an education is your child’s right as a citizen. Hell, you don’t even have to be a citizen to have a right to an education (and I’m sure to get some comments about that). Imagine living in a country where you have to pay for your child’s education. Not only that, but imagine that you make about $2,000 a year. So, your child drops out of school at about the age of 10 or 12 to work instead. If he or she ever goes at all.

I have a theory on this onslaught of homeschooling. I believe that there are plenty of mothers who have concrete reasons for homeschooling their kids. Perhaps the child is involved in a career (acting, sports, etc). Perhaps the family belongs to a church that offers homeschooling. A child might have a disability that the parent just doesn’t feel comfortable sending him or her to school with. What I suspect is going on, though, is an extension of the smothering fashion that’s sweeping American mothers off their feet.

Everywhere you look, mothers (and sometimes fathers!) are so into their children that they seem to have no life of their own. It begins when they fall in love with that helpless infant and it cements itself when the infant turns into that google-eyed toddler that absolutely lives for and worships his mommy and is just so darn cute to boot. We all are hostage for life to the hearts of our kids – but some mothers just lose themselves in this. All parts of their lives fall behind whatever their children may need or want. Giving the best of every single possible thing in the entire world to their children becomes their only goal.

These mothers are online constantly, too. The list of websites devoted to early childhood mothering, stay-at-home mothering, et al, are so profuse. Type in “stay at home mom” to Google and come up with your choice of 18,500,000 websites. Type in early childhood, even more choices – 63,900,000. It’s easy to see how someone just looking for the right way could be overwhelmed, even – yes – brainwashed. The toys, educational programs, videos, CDs, nursery/bedroom décor, etc that are offered are endless. It’s only natural for this desire to give the child the best things to extend to schooling as the child gets older.

But is it the best? Homeschooled childrens’ mothers brag about making sure their children are socialized with sports, clubs, etc. Are they really? Sure, they are kicking the soccer ball around with Jim and Jane but they are not in on what Jim and Jane are talking about went down at lunch time today. Is mom subsconsciously sheltering her kids from peer pressure; is she afraid of her child being subjected to school social pressure? Are these kids really getting an idea of learning their way toward their adult freedom in America or are they just being sheltered into adulthood? Are they really getting the best possible education or are they just having it controlled in every way by their mothers? Having the ability to control their babies and toddlers extended throughout their entire childhood must be a huge (if even subconscious) draw for these mothers.

I don’t have the answers. I have often wished I could homeschool my kids. My oldest son, now 20, had terrible ADD issues and would have benefited greatly from constant one-on-one attention. But he couldn’t get it, because I couldn’t afford it. However, no one in his school district will ever forget him, he made quite a splash with his huge, loveable and quirky personality. I will always be glad that he got the chance to share it with as many of his peers (and educators) as he did.

My youngest son is 7 and just now beginning to experience real peer issues. His best friend has a learning disability and can be quite a handful. She and he have been inseparable since Kindergarten. He has other kids who are beginning to tease him, or at least try and get him to play with them instead of her. He sticks to his guns, he loves his best friend. He is learning terrific lessons in peer pressure and loyalty. I don’t think he would in a homeschool situation.

Both boys had and have fine educations available to them here on the seacoast. It is of the same material that I have found in all the homeschool curriculum that I have examined (several). They both got and are getting extra and one-on-one help when they need it. My youngest even has a mentor.

So, I welcome any and all comments on this subject. I think homeschooling is being overused and for the wrong reasons. I think to use homeschooling out of fear of the seacoast’s public school system is doing an injustice to one’s children.

Posted by at 01:55 PM | Comments (20)

Earth, Wind, Fire -- and Waters

I had written this up after seeing Heather Waters perform a few months ago and had dusted it off, spruced it up, and set to post as a blog entry after receiving an email flyer that Heather was playing at Molly Malone's on 3 November. This was unfortunately before I read the fine print - that she was playing at Molly Malone's in Los Angeles, CA. But I'll post it anyway. She'll eventually make her way back east, and if you ever get a chance to see Heather perform, you'll be better off for it.
**************

There aren’t many things I can remember as if they happened yesterday. My memory gets lazier every year, and at the rusty old age of 37 a lot of my past is vague if not something I can’t recall at all. I spent most of my time between the ages of 20 and 30 playing the local circuits with my band and planning our break into the big time. The results included a lot of lost sleep, too many Jack & diet Cokes, and subsequent fuzzy spots in my memory; but no big break.

As a local has-been (never-has-been?) I spend a lot of time looking through the local entertainment ‘zines for who’s still playing. This time I came across a paragraph which mentioned a name that took me back to a 10 year old memory, and I remembered it like it was yesterday. Heather Waters was on tour and performing a one night gig at the Press Room on her way through.

The first time I heard Heather Waters was for me both humbling and epiphanic. We met at an open mic night at the Stone Church in Newmarket, where my band was trying to impress the owner into giving us a gig. We were introduced and learned that we shared the same manager. We talked for a while and I remember my reaction when I learned Heather was a singer, and new to the Portsmouth scene. “Well, little girl, heh heh…it’s like this, you see, watch how I do it and you might get a gig some day…”

When Heather took the stage and began to sing, all other action came to a standstill. Within three notes you could have heard a pin drop in the formerly very noisy bar. She sang a capella, not having a band at the time. I do not recall the song she sang, only that halfway through her rendition, I realized I wasn’t breathing. I pulled my chin off the floor and stumbled meekly into the ladies’ room. I was a singer, Heather was a torch goddess. I was embarrassed, I was not worthy.

Heather was gone shortly after, headed for Boston, headed for the big time. I never really thought about her again, until the other day, when I read her name. The single time I’d heard her sing had burned her voice into my memory bank. I had to hear it out loud.
***************************
I walk in to the Press Room and see my evening’s companion waiting for me, waving to me. I had convinced her to make a 40 minute commute, in the rain, on a Wednesday night by plying her weakness, Patty Griffin. Heather Waters gave me a Patty Griffin moment, I’d told my friend. You will die when you hear her.

It’s early, and there is no band in sight. I’m unsure if Heather will have a band or not. My friend asks me questions about Heather. How do you know her? What is she like? I try and recall anything about her personality and can’t. She might be a little flaky, I say. She’s waif-like. I’m excited that she’s doing what I hadn’t; she’s touring, she’s making it. She’s got a CD and she’s worked with Gillian Welch. All this I tell my friend as we wait for Heather to arrive.

She asks me if I’m going to talk to Heather. I don’t want to, I say, I just want to hear her. I feel awkward at the thought of talking to her.

Nine o’clock arrives and a man with a harmonica harness and guitar starts setting up over by the covered piano. I try to be inconspicuous as I look for Heather. Five past nine and I see a pixie-haired redhead making her way across the room. She walks over to the piano and plugs in what seems to be a classic 55SH microphone. Very cool, I say to my friend.

Across from our table a blonde woman is chatting on her cell phone while her boyfriend heads to the men’s room. We hear her complaining loudly to her phone friend that her boyfriend had insisted they come here when there’s KARAOKE going on at another bar. My friend looks at me and rolls her eyes.

Another table beside us fills with young women out on the town. Again, very chatty. I start to get nervous. Will we even hear her when she starts to sing?

Heather starts right in without a spoken word. I wonder if she has any stage presence. It is too soon to tell. Her eyes are closed tight and she holds her 55SH with an almost childlike cling. The voice is as beautiful as I remember. It feels like a warm bath. I look at my companion whose eyes are glued to Heather. During the second song she turns to me and says, I am getting shivers. I say, smugly, I told you.

We are mesmerized enough to not really be bothered by the rude blonde woman (thankfully now off the phone) or the loud coffee klatch beside us. Song after song goes by and Heather is warming up to the audience. She is visibly relaxing, and even opening her eyes occasionally. Between songs, she starts chatting, first a little, then a lot. She is funny. She is sweet. It turns out that she has terrific stage presence, she has this down to an art. There isn’t a hint of diva, and “down-to-earth” seems a perfect phrase. Songs are broken up by easy storytelling and covert sips from a shot glass. She mentions her performing partner and his many accomplishments several times with pride. By the middle of the set, we are under her spell. I am totally taken by surprise.

At the end of a set that included several of her original songs and some unbelievable covers, she gracefully announces a break. My friend is up there before Heather takes her hands off the microphone, to buy a CD. I watch them talk for a minute and see Heather look over at me. I know my friend has mentioned to Heather that I knew her back in the day. I am mortified!

Heather immediately comes over and sits down, shot glass of Jameson in hand, and introduces herself. I tell her about my memory of the Stone Church in 1996, and she laughs, tossing her head back. It is a wonderful laugh, feminine and genuine and just a tad bawdy. She says she remembers me, and accurately identifies my former trio. We slip into an easy conversation. She is amazingly approachable. I ask about all I gleaned from her website -- her tour, her moves to L.A., Texas and Tennessee, what it is like to rub elbows with the likes of Gillian Welch, David Rawlings, and Delbert McClinton. She is full of humble praise about them. I say, so you worked with Rami Jaffee [of the Wallflowers]? She giggles and says, no – Rami worked with me. It is the only time she shows any hint of ego. I ask her about her expensive classic microphone and she goes into that fantastic laugh again. “It’s just a repro... it’s an SM57.” I laugh too... clever girl!

We chat, the three of us, for her entire break. We reminisce cattily about our former manager. We talk about music and being “singer/songwriters.” She tells me how she lived in her car when she was in Portsmouth. I tell her about my Patty Griffin moment when I first heard her. She grabs my hand and says, “Oh my God! Thank you, oh, thank you, hold on, I’m giving you another CD!” and takes off. I am amazed at how sincerely she accepts our compliments. She must hear this all the time. If I were her, I say to my friend, I would be such a total snob. No, you wouldn’t, says she. We leave it at that because Heather has returned. We ask her to autograph our copies of her CD and she runs to her bag again, this time for a Sharpie. I am totally endeared. We have to restrain ourselves from gushing.

Heather’s partner, Duane, shoots her a glance and she says, I must go back up. This set is even better than the last. Heather has completely warmed up and is on a roll, as is her partner. I find myself harmonizing along, daydreaming about being up there on stage with them. At this point, everyone is mesmerized by her voice and laughing along with her stories. It is clear that every man in the room wants to either take care of her or sleep with her. The women are jealous, but can’t help enjoying themselves anyway. The duo’s next break comes, too soon it seems, and she is whisked away by several fans now. My friend and I spend the break reading the liner notes of her CD, trying to match the songs we’ve heard with the titles printed on the back. I proudly point out all the famous names, as if Heather were my sister. My companion gives me an indulgent smile. She knows I miss the glory days.

Heather and Duane wrap it up around midnight after one more fantastic set. We exchange business cards and hugs with Heather and handshakes with Duane. We had planned on being home by then, but could not bring ourselves to leave before she had sung every note she was going to sing. My friend is facing a long drive home in the pouring rain but we are elated nonetheless. We both feel lucky to have been able to see Heather perform a whole night for free. I have a feeling that next time, we’ll have to buy tickets; Heather is going to be big.
***********************************
The next day I went for my daily jog, taking my disc-man and Heather Waters with me. The CD, “Shadow of You” fulfilled all my expectations. I found myself singing along, the words had already been tucked in my mind the night before. I have found one more heroine for my CD collection.
********************
Heather Waters’ CD, “Shadow of You” on Redd Fogg Records is available at www.cdbaby.com. Her website, www.heatherwaters.com has future performance dates and venues; check out her blogspace on myspace.com.

Posted by at 03:28 PM | Comments (3)

Let's Do the Bipolar Slide!

Aaah, fall. Crisp, clean air, brightly colored leaves falling, temperatures dropping…one can’t help but feel an uplift of spirits. At least I can’t. Every year about this time, I start feeling really good. Spring does it to me also, but there’s nothing like the onset of fall to really get me going.

Unfortunately, I have bipolar disorder. Everyone has heard the term “functional alcoholic” – I am a “functional manic-depressive.” I still have symptoms, but they are basically under control. I am successful in work, parenting, social life, etc. -- most times. In the fall, however, I tend to go overboard with the good mood. Usually, around this time of year, my leg starts tapping with a little more urgency at my desk. I stay up a little later and wake up a little earlier. I drink way too much coffee during the day. I tend to exaggerate just about every aspect of myself. My brain starts kicking into overdrive with all this climate induced elation. Things are just popping around inside up there, one can practically hear the pinging.

Now, I'm by trade a songwriter. I've been writing songs since I was about 25 years old and I have no idea how many I have. Up until I wrote my first song I had nowhere to put all these little girls running around naked in my head. They would zip around like little wild things wreaking havoc with my sanity, keeping me up at night, distracting me during the day. They would get me into trouble on a constant basis. Writing songs gives me a reason and excuse to rewrite, edit, and linger over minutiae for hours at a time, keeping the old noggin busy and out of trouble. In other words when the inevitable autumnal mania kicks in, it’s good to have a skill.

One year, when I wasn’t writing songs, I bought almost $1,000 worth of Jade-ite dishes off of ebay, only to discover I hated it. Another year, I took all my friends out to dinner almost every night for a couple of weeks and maxed out a couple of credit cards within a month. Luckily those days are behind me -- with several years of therapy and many trial-and-error courses of medications under my belt I’ve got a grip on the mania cycle. It’s a strong grip too, one that took about 25 years to get and one I’ve no plans to ever let go of.

I’ve learned to channel all this fall mania into positive outlets such as writing (hey! Blogs! What a great invention!). I’ve seen and lived first-hand what out-of-control mania can do to destroy lives and families and I’ve got no aspirations to ever go there again. In fact, having been there is a great motivator to never go back. Since my band is no longer working and my songwriting partner is now busy EMT’ing in Manch-Vegas practically 24/7, this blog has become my new best friend. I still write songs but I feel a little freer with this format. It’s as though my writing choices are evolving with my control of my mental illness. I realized a long time ago that I’ll never be “cured” of bipolar, so I might as well embrace it and live with it as best I can. So I try to enjoy the high -- take advantage of the extra energy, without getting out of control. I write and write, maybe paint my living room, re-organize the kitchen cabinets, throw a party, write some more. You get the picture.

Of course there is a down side to this lovely fall feel-good blitz. I know that come the end of November or so, the good feeling will start to fade and unfortunately it doesn’t just fade like the vibrant red of a leaf to a more subtle yellow, still beautiful, floating down lightly. It fades as though a match were lit under the leaf, singeing the edges; you can practically watch my mood curl up with blackness.

It takes a great deal more effort to control that part of the swing. The down-slide doesn’t leave any visible destruction, you see, and is so much more easy to give in to. The self-pity that accompanies depression is unexplainable to the uninitiated. Every year I try and stay on top of it, one step away from the depression gremlin, and every year I just barely miss the mark. I spent last Christmas afternoon alone, by choice, weeping into the arm of my couch. The more I allowed the lead-weight feeling to creep in, the more I welcomed it (well, duh). It doesn’t ever last very long anymore, and I am a master of disguise enough so that I can fool just about anyone into thinking I’m happy, but it’s still pretty gross. This year, hopefully I’ll meet my goal of heading off the boogeyman at the pass.

BIPOLAR SLIDE (c 2004)

I’ts so seductive it sucks you in
Feels so good to let the devil in
And they say it’s good to cry
So I don’t even wonder why
I just give in
I let the devil in

It’s so enchanting when your mind shouts
Feels so good to let the devil out
And they say it’s good to create
So I don’t even hesitate
I just go spin out
I let the devil out

Just let it out – just let it in
Just let it spin
And when I think I’ll win
It sucks me in again

It’s so tiring the lows and highs
Feels so good to let the devil slide
And they say it’s good to have control
But sometimes I just lose my hold
If I can get outside
I’ll let the devil slide

And when I come on down it’s only me who’s left standing
And when I can’t get up it’s only me who’s understanding
The only way to keep it in
The only way to go
Is to slide outside my skin
The only way I know

Posted by at 09:13 AM | Comments (6)

It's Not Worth the Nickel, Guvnah

I'm not sure who the next governor of Maine should be but let me tell ya, I'm voting for the guy or gal who promises to take away the bottle & can cash redemption policy.

I just love walking into Hannaford's and being greeted with a smell like some morning after in a frat house. The fermented beer, cola and orange juice all mixed together, mmmmm, so nice! Even sweeter, seeing the parents sorting out their empties with their toddlers sitting in the carts mere inches away from that disgusting mess and stink. Or better, running about the place, slip-sliding through the sludge on the floor, dropping their toys in it, picking them up, putting their fingers back in their mouths. Ewuggabuggashiva!

Why can't I toss my wine bottles into nice green baskets like civilized New Hampshire people do? I'm stuck with three basic options. (There are more, but they aren't "regular" options). My three options: 1) store up my empties in nasty trash bags and bring them in to the grocery store where my lungs are treated to the stench of juice decay and sort them out into the little auto-dispensers, getting my hands irrevocably sticky and stinky; 2) Bring to a redemption center where I toss them the bags and they guess how many I have and present me with a few coins, I still have to deal with the stench and stickiness but not on such a time-extended scale, and with a longer drive or 3) Throw away my empties and deal with the karma eventually. The extra options are to save them all for school "bottle drives" (not a great option, since I don't have a lot of space for storing these stinking relics) or drive them over the border to my folks' recycling center (see extra option #1 for disadvantage).

I don't understand why Maine sticks with this disgusting, unsanitary method of recycling. I know that many people just throw away their empties to avoid the mess, you can hear it on garbage day as the sanitation folks toss the bags into the truck. Clink, clink, crunch, crunch. And why must we be forced to be greeted at every grocery store entrance with that stench? (To be fair, some stores have two entrances, one without the bins). It's just nasty and uncivilized. Maine citizens are being treated like children with this deposit thing. We are not trusted to recycle our bottles and cans, so we're charged that nickel or fifteen cents (ten cents extra for wine and liquor bottles -- side note: what's that all about?) to ensure that we bring them back. Whatever! Some towns do have a once a month curbside pick up. I say -- not good enough! I don't want these stinking bottles and cans in my basement or yard for a whole month. Take them away every week!

I say give us a chance at curbside recycling. Eliminate the deposit and give out the green bins to Maine residents and see how quickly we accommodate! I'll do anything to never again have to see some poor alcoholic emptying his van of Budweiser cans (four carts worth)! I promise to put my green bin out faithfully every week if I never have to cringe because I forgot my Wet Ones at the grocery store! You have my vote!

Please recycle!

Posted by at 09:59 AM | Comments (4)

When It's Right to be Wrong

I'm not sure if I've mentioned this before, (wink) but I'm a very opinionated individual, and very vocal about my opinions. So it's no surprise when one of my heavy handed opinions occasionally reach up and bite me in the ass. I will share with you today two cases.

Case #1: The Bus Driver

I believe our schools coddle our children. I have put one child through school and am working on my next one and let me tell you, the pussyfooting makes me want to puke. Junior said the wrong thing to Janice and made her cry, his *parents* are called and informed that he needs to understand that the school has a zero tolerance. However, Janice wears a T-shirt that reads "Boys are Stupid" and not a peep from establishment (are they afraid of being accused of looking at her tits?) Of course, if Junior complained, I'm sure Janice's *parents* would be told to not allow the T-shirt. Staff are afraid to confront the students directly, they are afraid to do or say ANYthing that might piss off an ultra-lib parent along the line. If a student or two are causing havoc in the class they are quietly removed and whisked away to an office where the parent is called instead of allowing the teacher to just lay the smack down and send up all their asses to detention. (peer pressure, it works!) It's always made my stomach turn. This has always been my opinion.

Until this past few weeks.

My seven year old started out by casually saying that one of his afternoon bus drivers was "kinda scary." Then it gradually turned in to full blown terror. Then I finally got the story out of him. Seems this bus driver's methods of quieting down a particularly rowdy set of kids on the bus was to yank the bus over to the side of the road and scream threats of taking them back to school instead of home. "He's real BIG, Mommy! And HAIRY. He scares me so much when he yells BE QUIET OR ELSE!!"

Well if a parent had told me that they were upset because a bus driver had done this I would have snorted and said, "Good for the driver! What the hell else is he supposed to do? A bunch of screamin' brats, I can hear it now! Sure your kid isn't the one screaming but he has to understand that's the way it has to be, those kids are making it bad for him and they need to chill out!" But this is my baby, and though I try and tell him it'll be okay, the bus driver isn't going to kill him or drop him off back to school and make him get lost (his big fear) and just ignore it -- those humongous blue eyes were Spongebob-wide with fear and it tore me up! So I have this battle within. What do I do?

I admit my mistake. Sometimes I *am* wrong (no need to gasp). I need to intervene here, and be the parent that I say I can't stand. So I try to do it with dignity. I call the bus company and speak with the supervisor, who turns out to be a really nice guy. I get him laughing, I try to endear him, and then I lay it on the line as nicely as I can. What I really want to do is come through the phone and tell him to fire the he-beast that drives the bus and scares my son. But I refrain. And turns out, the supervisor is also a driver, and knows my son, and agrees to have a talk with Mr Big & Hairy and also with my son to make him feel more at ease.

I tell my son this when he gets home and his eyes get Spongebob wide again, but this time with gratitude and love. And I have to say, sometimes it's good to be wrong.

Case #2: The Rat that Would Not Die

As you might have read in my blog entry DOGS ARE NOT PEOPLE, I tend to be a bit pragmatic when it comes to treating animals like people. I believe if it's time, a pet should be euthanized and not have its life extended to guard our own hearts against breakage. I believe that spending lots of money on pampering pets is a crime (spend it on people in need, buy your pet something from Big Lots instead). Blah, blah, and blah. This is where I'm starting to trip up.

When I bought my house nearly four years ago, I made a promise to my little boy that we would get a dog right away. Well we took our first visit to the SPCA and there were no dogs under 85 pounds and all of them seemed to want to eat him for lunch (at the time he was 3 1/2 and soooo little). He was so disappointed and had the little trembly lip thing going on. On our way out I spotted a cage with a white rat and the little light bulb went on over my head. My boy was totally into Stuart Little at the time and I suggested we take the rat home instead of a big scary dog. He was thrilled, and we did. He instantly named her Stuart Little and asked me to buy her a little car and skateboard. Stuart didn't seem to mind her name, even though she was not a mouse, and a girl at that. She learned to come to her name, scampering across the coffee table always one paw away from one of our cats (we supervised the playdates). She would find the opening of our sleeves and crawl inside all the way up to our ears where she would nibble and purr and sit on our shoulder. She loves cream cheese tortillas and peanut butter carrots.

Well, here we are almost four years later and Stuart still lives. She was one and a half when we adopted her. This puts the rat at an unbelievable 5 years of age. 3 years is normal for rats. No one can believe it when they visit and see the cage still sitting on the dry sink in the living room. "Did you get a new rat?" they inquire. No, I say, Stuart is still alive and kicking.

Stuart is totally blind, deaf, and with no sense of smell. She has lost the use of one of her hind legs after getting it caught in the cage about 6 months ago. She has no conception of when I put food in her dish -- I have to touch her nose to it. She is nearly hairless as well. She's not a pretty sight. I lovingly call her "Methuselah."

I've had more than one person practically beg me to have her put to sleep. "She can't be happy." "She must be in pain." "Why prolong her life as it is?"

Well, disbelievers, I just can't bring myself to do it. I tell myself, she's well cared for, she's feeling fine, and why should I end her life if she's both of these things? This is one happy rat! Every night like clockwork, she will actually start climbing her cage -- a metal high rise attached to the top of a 10 gallon aquarium -- and rattle the top. Clearly, no pain involved. Sure, it takes her a hell of a lot longer to get there than it used to, but she does it. Every night! She still "purrs" when I pick her up (after the initial startle, because she doesn't see, hear or smell me coming!). So anyway, my point is -- and I hope I'm not kidding myself -- I'm not going to euthanize her just because she's extremely old and incredibly ugly. Am I wrong?

You know, on these two counts, I don't really care if I am. And you can even call me a hypocrite, I'll let it pass.

Posted by at 04:00 PM | Comments (16)

A Head Start to the Finish Line

http://edworkforce.house.gov/press/press109/first/09sep/2123passeshouse.htm

The link above is of course a carefully crafted press release submitted by our well paid, clever spin doctors in the white house. More of the real story can be found here:

http://www.seacoastonline.com/news/10032005/news/66084.htm

What a shocker! Head Start program has been charged, tried and convicted and Congress is stepping in to “clean it up.” Here we have what is essentially a grass roots operation – so very grass-roots, by the way, that a family of four in Portsmouth, NH can make no more than about $20K a year in order to qualify for Head Start programs according to the last flyer I saw at the post office – and Congress just can’t help itself but meddle. Unfortunately, though Head Start is a private, not-for-profit agency, it is federally funded and its hands are tied to the whippin’ post.

I have nothing but good things to say about Head Start (one exception – they could expand the income requirements). Even though I never qualified financially to send my sons, I have personal experience with it. One of my nephews, at four and a half years old was so far behind the learning and social development curve he couldn’t say his alphabet and clung to his nana’s leg like a frightened koala cub. His mother’s side of his family is poor and “underserved.” His grandmother, with whom he lives, enrolled him in Head Start and within a couple of months the kid was at 2nd grade reading level, a social butterfly and just making leaps and bounds in all directions. I really believe Head Start was in great part responsible for this turnabout. He is now 8 years old and one of the most outgoing, well-adjusted and bright young boys I know. (I’m not just being biased!)

Now Congress, with their “School Readiness Act” has appointed themselves God over this wonderful program which they have deemed to be such a mess. (I can’t find any detailed public information on what the mess is all about, other than some vague meanderings about financial mismanagement and a discontinuation of a religion-based hiring practice in some Head Start programs). I shudder to think what will become of this program in no time at all. Fun facts on Head Start have gone from this http://www.nhsa.org/advocacy/advocacy_facts.htm
to this
http://www.theorator.com/bills109/hr2123.html !!

I hope I’m proven wrong, but my prediction is that Head Start will eventually disappear or morph into another program altogether, completely unlike the program it is now. In the future Head Start will probably be named something else and be riddled with stupid PC rules and cookie-cutter teachers all with their A.A. or above degrees lined up in a row and no idea at all what it’s like to actually live the lives of these children and relate to them.

God help Head Start! Because it won’t be Congress that will!

For further educational entertainment on the state of the financially strapped NH family, please see this enlightening link:

http://www.childrensdefense.org/earlychildhood/statefacts/NH.pdf

Posted by at 03:06 PM | Comments (11)