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.

Columbus, Mississippi (Part Two)

This post makes more sense after reading A Fond Look Back at the Welty Symposium and Columbus, Mississippi, Part One first. Assuming you're in the mood to indulge me. :)

A quick shout out to the Hampton Inn who so kindly put a full-length mirror on the outside of the bathroom door! The door opens in to the bathroom. If you’re a lone traveler like me, you, of course, don’t close the door to tinkle. So, before even thinking, you sit to take care of business and look in front of you at a full-length, up-close, birds-eye view of your entire self sitting on the toilet.

I could’ve died a happy woman NEVER seeing this. I wonder if I have a lawsuit on my hands here. I certainly feel scarred for life. That’s got to be worth something. I’d complain for a complimentary free night’s stay, but I’d have to pee again and relive the horror.

Maybe I’ll just start closing the door. And I leave tomorrow anyway - for Memphis! I’ll stop by and say a few words to my dead. I’ll drive by my grandmother’s house. I’ll remember and smile and feel a little loved.

The Welty Symposium! At first, I was a little disappointed. It was in Cochran Hall this year, not the historical and traditional Poindexter Hall I loved so much.

Cochran Hall is a dormitory and certainly didn’t have the atmosphere to fit the event. The events were held in Cochran’s ballroom, which is a recent room addition to the front of the building connected by one set of doors like an adjoining hotel room .

It didn’t feel Southern, it wasn’t old, and I didn’t feel any ghosts. Not to mention the constant slamming of doors from student traffic to and from their rooms. It was frustrating that nobody in charge ever thought to close the ballroom doors to muffle the noise.

But the authors who spoke and read made up for most of the logistics. Nan Graham, Rilla Askew, Ellen Douglas, and Karon Luddy were my favorites. I’m so glad I came, as usual. I feel special every time, like I’m part of a secret club. To hear Southern women writers read their own stories and talk about their writing lives is like a long, slow, warm enveloping hug.

I will always regret missing the 2002 Symposium. That year, Jeanne Braselton, Rome, Georgia author of A False Sense of Well Being, read. She killed herself the following Spring.

With any luck, I'll be back next year. Not to the Hampton, of course. I couldn't take that again.

Columbus, Mississippi (Part One)

This post makes more sense after reading A Fond Look Back at the Welty Symposium post first. Then Part Two after this Part One. If you're indulging me, that is. :)

It’s true what they say. You can’t go home again.

Most of the drive here was beautiful! The leaves in the mountains of Kentucky, especially. Not quite at peak, but enough for my foliage fix. With the good, comes the bad. I had to drive through Alabama this time. Alabama is not my favorite state in the union. In fact, I don't think they realize they actually ARE part of the union. Being raised in Georgia, I'm obligated to live my life according to the unwritten state law that requires participation in at least ten Alabama jokes every year. Despite moving away from Georgia eight years ago, I have yet to have a problem meeting quota.

So, I was driving toward the Alabama/Mississippi state line on Highway 82 when I came upon an unexpected sign: TOLL AHEAD. It made no sense. I was in the middle of nowhere. There were signs about Tuscaloosa, but I never saw any signs of it. When I reached the booth (of course there were no exact change lanes), I asked, “Collecting for what?” 

She opened her mouth, as if she might speak, but let out what can only be likened to a monkey giggle.

I repeated (because it’s kind of fun and you just can’t help yourself), “Seriously, where do the funds go?” She said she didn’t know. I’d like to think she went home and looked it up or made a mental note to ask a co-worker, but <imagine sound of me snorting> the likelihood of that is as remote as she was.

Anyway, the closer I got to Columbus, the fewer cars I saw, even though it was prime 5 o'clock traffic time. I counted two cars and NO trucks in my rear-view mirror when I made the Military Road exit.

But this morning, from 5am to 7am??? All I have heard is truck after truck after truck after truck. At times, it sounds like they’re coming in the room. How can that be? Maybe they’re all heading further west, where I wouldn’t have seen them driving into town? It makes sense, because East is Alabama, after all, and nobody in their right mind would purposefully head in that direction.

There is also a critical gas station/convenience store next door to the hotel. So, I hear lots of air brakes (isn’t that right?) followed by backup beeps followed sometimes by idling or sometimes full-blown re-start-ups.

I keep telling myself to be thankful for the trucks in this world. They bring us stuff. Apparently, Columbus needs lots of stuff or has lots of stuff that needs to be taken to other people first thing in the morning.

But, it’s all trivial and laughable, really. Austin is safe and had a good report from the doctor yesterday, and, despite renting a hearse, I must have driven in-between all the terrible storms yesterday.

And at last night’s opening ceremonies, Ellen Douglas read from her books and closed by saying, “Thank ya’ll for being so proud of me.”

That was worth the 5am wake-up call. That, and there’s a Waffle House (the real kind, not the kind north of the MD line) down the road.

Run Granny Run

Run Granny Run airs on HBO this Thursday, October 18th, 9pm.

http://www.hbo.com/docs/programs/rungrannyrun/index.html

I recently had my own personal “run”-in with Granny D. She was the keynote speaker at our Citizens’ Summit last month and I had the pleasure of driving her to her hotel for a rest after her speech.

During our entirely too short car ride, I learned that our organization’s fearless leaders had taken her to a restaurant where belly dancers entertained at the table.

She said, “It was certainly something to see!”

Worried that I might be in for an earful, I treaded lightly.  “Well, it sure is a good thing you weren’t offended by it.”

To which she enthusiastically replied, “Ohhh, my dear, it was offensive, indeed. But I loved it!”

There are no words. Like everyone else, I gushed about how remarkable she was, but it really didn’t even scratch the surface of what I meant.

Being detailed oriented

I love days like this. In 2005, I worked on a project with a woman who became the fourth person on my list of “deal-breakers” (people with whom I refuse to work – so far there are five).

She was a combination of idiot and attempted bitch. Attempted, because it’s impossible to be both.

There are so many things to choose from, but….

She had Bible scriptures taped all over her overhead cubicle cabinets. I think it was her contribution to teach and help her fellow man, because they were all at perfect eye level for passers-by or visitors, but, of course, out of her line of sight.

She loved to start sentences with, “I’m sorry if you feel that way” and “Since you're not an employee here”.

She carried her $1,500 purse to meetings. Most meetings were twenty feet from her desk. And the damn purse always managed to make its way to the middle of the conference room table. (I used to love watching her repeatedly move it here and then there - all the while scouring the room for attention.)

She put MBA beside her name in her email signature.

‘Nuff said.

Well, maybe just one more….

She was a certified personal trainer, and loved to talk about how cute that made her. She also fell asleep for hours at her desk every day. On particularly fun days, you could hear her snore. It’s hard to be impressed by a fitness expert with that kind of energy.

Then, today, almost two years later, a gift from the Heavens. Her name popped up on some networking website I ran across.

Her list of credentials and skills said many things, but ended with this:

Creative and detailed oriented.

That’s no typo, my friends.

Precinct Inspector Rutherford

November is election time here in Indiana. I volunteered to “work the polls”. I’m a big fan of a true populist democracy and, as every year passes, am increasingly concerned about its future. So, it seemed like a perfect fit: an opportunity to help voters have a good voting experience, ensuring repeat customers, especially in light of the hulabaloo about the last election here because of botched records and polling place mayhem.

Of course, no good cause comes without a catch. I have to report downtown at 4:30 am. AM! Apres morning. I just looked it up and it’s actually Ante Meridiem (Latin for before noon, not French for after morning).

Anyway, I could not care less about democracy and its privilege to vote before sunrise.

Or do I? Maybe democracy is why I haven’t had to care about certain things, like bombs and mortar shells and police states and home invasions, in the middle of the night.

It’s the reason I get to choose my beliefs and speak publicly about them. I get to assemble and protest. I get freedoms and pursuits. I get to worship whomever I choose.

It’s the reason I don’t have to worry about it in the middle of the night. It’s like the good kid in the family.

But it desperately needs tending to. So 4:30, it is.

Besides, another checkmark in the pro column is that my job title for the day is Precinct Inspector. I wonder if I get a badge. I bet I get a clipboard. I think I get minimum wage, too.

Me, me, me. I’m democratic after all.

Those wacky Christian schools

Say what? Oral Roberts U is being sued? For questionable and outlandish personal spending habits? Say it’s not so!!! I just can’t believe that a religious school might be guilty of anything, much less exorbitant spending. That just can’t be right, can it? Not here, not in America, not by organizations working for God and creating better people and all. I mean, Holy Crap.

Mr. Oral Roberts U gave a speech about the lawsuit to the school….in the chapel. He mispronounced litigious. He concluded, “Make no mistake about it. This suit is about money.”

I wonder if he knows he’s funny. He needs to spend some of that travel and home remodeling money on a speech writer. And a dictionary.

What makes me giddy with excitement, though, is that the former professors who filed the suit have accused Mrs. Oral Roberts U of texting male students in the middle of the night. Now that I can sink my teeth into! How fun! Over-the-hill women acting caarrr-aaaaazzzz-y. I love it! You go girl. Tell me more. Tell me more.

Realistically, though, I’m pretty sure that today’s headline will be the last. Things like this have a way of disappearing. Dammit.

http://www.cnn.com/video/#/video/us/2007/10/08/roberts.oral.roberts.scandal.cnn

Whoa

It’s scary to think that this time next year, things will be so different. I’ve lived with someone for the last twenty years, seventeen of those being just with my son.

We’ve had our problems this year. Since he turned seventeen, it’s been a little like living with someone you want to divorce. It sounds harsh until you hear that he feels the same way. In fact, I’ve been told recently that the happiest day in his life will be the day he no longer has to live with me.

Yea, I’m an ogre, whatever, been there, done that.

Still, it feels lonely already. No sound of a key in the door at midnight on weekend nights. No nightly conversations about what happened that day. No noise or lights or flickering screens coming from his room each night. No constant ringing of his telephone. No truck in the garage every morning. No 6am alarm to fix breakfast. No “I’m home from school” phone calls.

I’ll be the mother of an adult. That means motherhood no longer defines me. I’m just going to be me. Scary!

At the same time, it feels freeing and exciting. I can go places. I can do things I want to do, without weighing his enjoyment. I can take some time off. I can get my graduate degree. I have options I don’t even know about yet.

Frankly, I’m a little grateful for the dog and the college bills to come. Because of them, I can only take baby steps into this new life full of just me. ACK.

What Will Be

When the one thing your chemistry has craved since its inception eludes you,
When the movie screen inside your forehead plays the same scenes each day and into each year,
When you know, with less years ahead than behind, that you are the same person you were on the playground,
The road ahead is perfectly clear.

The vision is a comfort, because you know yourself and your heart and soul and your mind
But it feels heavy with the burden of the still years of an unwavering need.
It will keep inviting itself and celebrating in otherwise happy moments
Reminding you of who you are and who you always will be.

You stand by your convictions and have recently become friends with your flaws.
You are proud of the good things you’ve done and you’ve learned from the bad.
You like your company and you like your dreams.
But, in the end, nothing matches the one thing you never had.

So, you’ll stand at the window looking out at your life’s last corner
Dreaming the dream that was never meant to be
Imagining how life would be different
If your reflection wasn't the only thing to see.

Two posts in one day

What the f-heck is going on with Paul Newman’s Mango Salsa in this town? It’s not at Kroger, it’s not at Marsh, it’s not at Meier, it’s not at Trader Joes, it’s not at Wild Oats. Every other flavor – bean and corn, pineapple, peach, what have you – but no mango. It’s maddening. It’s discrimination. Or maybe it’s just me – sure wouldn’t be the first time.

The only place I CAN find it is Wal-Mart. Wal-Mart! I feel about Wal-Mart the way private school parents feel about public school kids: no good can come from being that close to the unwashed.

I guess I’ll buy a case this afternoon, after I drink lunch to steel myself for the trip. I must “man up”, because I could literally drink this stuff. I’d like to think it’s the good-for-me lycopene in the tomatoes and the fruity goodness of the mango bits, but I’m pretty sure it’s the high fructose corn syrup. YUM!!

So, when I get home this afternoon, first a shower to wash off the grime, of course, and then a dinner of mango salsa and chips, looking at a cartoon drawing of Paul Newman (I eat right out of the jar for this reason) and knowing that, beyond my instant gratification, my $1.96 per-jar/$23.52 per-case contribution to his causes outweighs my sacrifice.

If only...

Today would be Clay McKemie’s birthday. He would be a Senior this year and enjoying his last birthday lunch with his high school buddies in the cafeteria, probably talking about the weekend and college applications. Plus, this year, his birthday falls on a Friday, which would make it perfect for celebrating along with after-school games, events, and parties.

If only.

In honor of his (and Sean Wilkinson’s) memory, I want to post this note to encourage any parent who stumbles upon my blog (and I thank you) to be vigilant and diligent about information.

Obviously, we shouldn’t make decisions without information. But when information isn’t available, how can we, as parents, make responsible decisions - decisions about things that would never even cross our minds?

Please, please, please read and search and TALK, TALK, TALK to each other. We can speak our minds, voice our opinions, and communicate our thoughts. We can ask our questions loudly and boldly. We can tell people about our own experiences. We can tell people what we’ve read, what we know, what we’ve heard, what we’ve seen. We can offer to them what we would and wouldn’t do and why.

Just imagine what might be different. Of course, nothing changes for Clay and Sean’s families, but we might change the future for another family. Clay (and Sean, and the families, of course) would really like that, I think.

I can’t even express how happy that would make me. This, my blog/diary/column/opinion/editorial/voice, has never been intended to be negative or controversial, but to be used for freelance marketing and original expression. I think both are apparent to the reasonable reader. And if God’s plan is that any of my beliefs, opinions, or unanswered questions (I’m known for those!) about any of the hodgepodge of topics here resonate with a visitor and possibly spark a connection for conversation, I am grateful.

But, supremely, I am grateful for Clay and Sean telling me their stories from 500 miles away. I think of them always and I know I always will.

Today, I remember and celebrate both boys’ birthdays. Today, from now on, and in nothing but Love.

48 days times 2

Color me stupid, but I thought you had to have a pod or be a pod or be in a pod or be somepody to listen to podcasts. Were they ever only playable on IPods? Or am I just THAT old? :-|

There is a ridiculous amount of stuff I could have been listening to all this time!

For example, I love Dan Miller! He’s a life coach from Tennessee and not one of those that teaches by bragging about all of his many accomplishments and how you, too, can be just like him for only $99.99.

He’s from the Dave Ramsey School of responsibility and stop-whining-and-just-do-it, but he hides it better than Dave does, which helps, being the nurturing life coach and all that he is.

As of today, there are 96 days left in the year. That’s 48 days times 2. That gives me 48 days to catch up on podcasts and another 48 days to just do it.

So, in October, the month that, according to numerology (not a huge fan, I just think it’s fun to play with), is the best predictor of the following year, I’m committing to one-page-a-day to get the toughest chunk of this thing on paper/screen. Then, by November 1st, I’ll be soooo ready for the annual NaNoWriMo, which I’ll use to finish.

Thanks, Dan. It’s obviously newsletter day! Now that I gathered all that strength to push the button, it’s podcast day, too!