The Evangelist

You don’t just approach people about religion in a parking lot and expect some miraculous transitional commitment based on your own evangelical state of mind. This is how cults began.

Charismatic spiritual advocates soliciting their brand of faith had a “hay day” from the 50s through the 70s. Spirituality crossed over into counter culture and got twisted to the point the top movie and song “Jesus Christ Superstar” was heralded by hippies and conservatives alike. There was a whole genre of rock music with a Christian slant that flew of the shelves.

We all are probably familiar with the “Manson Crew”, the Jones “Koolaide” fiasco, and the “Davidian” destruction. These are just a few of the worst occurrences. There were thousands of charismatic Christians across those decades who twisted Jesus to fit their narcissistic new age religious rants.

The promise of Salvation does not come from man. Man cannot determine an individuals salvation, not even their own. This part time evangelical approach leaves folks sitting in vehicles with the air conditioning thinking “If that man/woman only knew.”You never know who your talking to. You probably don’t have the time to listen to someone’s fears and hopes so you probably end up asking them if they have a church and give them the information for yours, this is the “Blind Handoff”.

This approach validates the 40s and 50s sales approach that guys with names like Zeigler or Caffee used. “Get them in the door” and the rest is history. The hand off!!!

Evangelizing is tough. Folks take your enthusiasm and twist it around. They complain about hypocrisy, judgement, or tithing as a defense for not being what you think a Christian should be. But remember, other people are the devil to strangers and you put yourself in that situation when you approach someone you don’t know. No matter how friendly your smile or how engaging your hook, as they walk or drive away your pitch dissolves and suspicion creeps in from the back of their brain like a scrim being lowered on a stage.

The “Great Commission”, (Mathew 28: 18-20) gives us our charge. Just remember that those disciples left what they knew and developed followings. I’m certain that the man who approached me with all the vigor of a 1st century evangelist didn’t want me to go get my wife and 3 very hyper kids and follow him home.

So, if we’ve compromised, (or modified) the definition of evangelism due to society and the multitude of examples that went horribly wrong it’s ok, God knows our heart. That was the one thought I had as I drove away and prayed you really understood what you were doing. Even though you thought I was lost I honestly drive that road everyday.

The Babysitters

I remember the nights my Mom and Dad went out and didn’t take us. I would stare at the “Charles Chips” can in the corner next to the brown console TV with the record player on the top in anticipation of delight. After dinner we would get a bath and put our pajama’s on, then I would return to the closest seat to the brown mottled can of salty delight waiting on my parents to leave. I would even volunteer to help clean up so they would leave faster.

Any other time one, or both, of my parents would leave I would continue whatever I was doing and not even notice the screen door slam shut. But on “Babysitting night” I would escort them to the door and send them off with my best goodbye; then run to the sofa and wait with my hands in my lap. I waited because kids didn’t get into food bags, cans, or containers. An adult did that. I assume today that was because after a day of picking every orifice on our body it wasn’t biologically safe for me to handle food. That would sort of spoil the thought for adults. So I would wait on my bowl of delight and my glass of soda.

We also had to wait on the TV. We didn’t have remotes. There was a dial that thunked through the 3 channels we had reception on. Later “Cable” came and the dial really thunked around the 360 degrees. The only time I remember changing the channel is when my dad told me when to change the channel and what channel to change it to. Kids didn’t play with the TV either, nor did it get turned on until the TV Guide was perused for the show to be watched. We only knew how to surf at the beach.

So after Mom and Dad were gone the Babysitter would fill up the bowls, turn on the TV and sit with us watching the show. Our babysitters didn’t have cell phones and nobody but Mom and Dad used the “house phone” unless there was an emergency. Mom would call halfway through her night out, just around bedtime, just to make sure we didn’t turn into heathens in their absence. When the show was over and the snacks were gone, it was off to bed. The babysitter would put us in our bed, say goodnight, and head downstairs to clean up. I know this because when I got older I was allowed to stay up a half hour later than my younger siblings. So I got to help clean up and put myself to bed. I was “older” now!

Once in a while I would wake up and hear my Mom and Dad come in, usually around midnight I think. I would pretend I was asleep. I didn’t want to risk losing the next night of “Charles Chips” and “Soda”. Not to mention a bad report meant a bad experience when I woke up. My parents were patient on occasion with their discipline. Keeping the babysitter happy was essential.

There were many teachable moments, learning opportunities, and latent understandings in the “babysitting” experience back then. They all involved a person, expectations, and consequences. I’m not sure technology can accomplish those things and society today has me thinking I’m right about that. I am positive technology can’t accomplish those goals without an adult and some structure. So don’t be surprised when you’re “gifted” child who uses a computerized device at 2 years old, reaches unheard of levels of completion on computerized activities at age four, and can read a prompt for a popular characters game sight at age five without assistance. Also don’t be surprised when they wear T shirts to bed, you have to tell them things more than once, or they can’t go to sleep with a TV on.

Times change and the world provides many new distractions for bored parents and kids. I don’t know if playing the latest shooting game in silence with your child constitutes interaction. I’m not sure sitting eating dinner together or watching a “Reality Show” together while your 11 year old competes with you on texting skills is really quality time. I am sure that the person who sits with a child and listens, goes outside with a child and directs an activity, or interacts with a child with a toy in their hand, not a phone; they will be the person that child respects down the road for taking the time. Surround your child with family and friends and put the devices in their place. There are millions of real memories awaiting you just outside the computerized world.

Middle Ground

Waiting silently in the diagnosis is a bottle filled with bad memories and scientific intentions that will lead you on a path of destruction. A bottle filled with sorrow and pain that will send you shivering into places you can’t possibly understand. Your trust will be destroyed by the bitter pills you have to swallow.

You never thought for a minute a trip to the pharmacy would send you on an “Alice in Wonderland” adventure. We have not yet acknowledged that our view of the addict is so misconstrued that we don’t recognize the signs for fear of the truth. The truth that the dealer hands you death as a cure in the form of a prescription. The middleman hides behind the counter of a store filled with supplements, lotions, and 12 packs of Coke at 3 for $12.00. The addict rushes through the “Dive Thru” window in order to get back to work or not drag the 3 kids out of their car seats and listen to them beg for candy while waiting on the hand off. All the while we just see the spiral of destruction called healthcare in action.

Waiting anxiously for relief by the mg. the bitter taste of dependence sends anxiety flowing through your body like an electric charge. Heightened emotions snap at unnoticeable normalities. Criticism runs like a “Ticker Tape” across the stock exchange billboard. Fear runs like ice water to you stomach and the temporary reality of needing something physically entrenches you mentally. How? Why? When will it end;when you’re desperate and all you’ve lived for is gone. When the dealer no longer will see you and the middleman can’t be your “Good Neighbor”.

There are limits to what a Dr. Can do for you. A Pharmacy can’t supply you without a pass from the Dr. Eventually you’re on your own to figure out how to “Fix” yourself. Chronic pain, anxiety, depression are slippery slopes. Real conditions with real consequences. The cure can kill you. At the very least they can send you on a path of destruction that will leave you sitting in places and situations you only read in books or saw on TV. I promise you the dealer and the middleman won’t be there to help you; they won’t even acknowledge you in books or on TV.

Waiting desperately for anything to take away the pain, the fear, the anxiety. Hiding in places you know aren’t safe. Meeting people you know benefit from your pain and smiling. Leaving embarrassment behind for desire and disfunction. Putting all you cared for, loved, and respected in a box with the memories and fears. Now you’ve sealed your fate.

Now years have past. Family and friends have faded to memories and obstacles. You have no one to tell. No one to call. No one to help. The people you reach out to have one hand in yours and the other in your pain. There’s nowhere to turn, nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. You look to God and feel the judgement. You look to family and feel the shame. You see friends and feel the distrust. You’re lucky; because you still feel and this is the point of no return.

From here you either move to death or move to life. This middle ground isn’t bottom for you. You can continue down further along the road to destruction or turn up hill towards healing. From here it’s easy. Because every step closer to destruction leaves you numb. You throw off your humanity and strip yourself of dignity all in the name of addiction. Your not physically dead, your emotionally dead. And for many this is the point of no return

For the lucky it’s an awakening. They cling to their humanity and grasp what dignity they have left and seek help along the way. They Find those people who won’t let them fall, who won’t give up. Then step by step they unravel the mystery of addiction. The complex understanding that drugs weren’t the problem. Life, chance, and a system that doesn’t understand it’s own definition propelled them towards a dysfunctional existence where there were no coherent clues. Just some entrepreneurial medicine men perpetuating pills to find a cure for, and you were in the control group that didn’t get the placebo.

The Closet

The Closet
Every once in a while I walk by the closet in the quiet of the morning and memories flood each step I take to the coffee pot. Sometimes I pull out an old trophy when everyone’s still asleep. I just sit it on the table while I pour a cup and then i’ll sit there and drink my coffee and reminisce.

Eventually life begins and I have to put that trophy away and get on with my day. The memories will follow me for a bit, then they’ll fade just after I remember that I owe much of my success in life to the experiences that trophy represents.

While visiting my Grandma at the nursing home one day it dawned on me that Grandma’s life in an Assisted Living Home was much the same from my perspective. Yeah, she has acquaintances that she can talk about the latest TV show or breaking news story. Of course the nurses and aides listen to her; but her family treats her pretty much like a trophy.

They (I) stop along our way, open the door to the Assisted Living home, and sit her in a chair and reminisce. Then we put her back in her closet and go about life with an occasional memory till the next time the closet calls.

I understand that some cases warrant moving Grandma out of her 2000 square foot home with enough memories to fill a stadium. I also understand that although there are caring people in these arrangements, it’s a business. As a business it’s marketed. So there are people out there convincing everyone that Assisted Living should be the norm. You come into this country in an institution, you go out of the world in an institution.

It’s not like that in every country, or family. Some of the poorest cultures in the world you would be born at home. When you were elderly and a little, (or alot) slower, you would live with relatives till you pass. So it seems to me money isn’t the issue.

That doesn’t even make sense as a reason from “jump street! How can it be a financial decision for our family. Your gonna liquidate Grandma’s assets and turn her benefits and her entitlements over to a medical group so you can pull her out of the closet once in a while. Why not just keep her at home and organize the family so everyone gets to spend time with her, instead of paying someone to have to visit. She certainly looked after many folks in her day!

I understand if it is a situation where you’re not ready to “send her off” and it’s medically impossible to keep her at home. We would, as a nation, naturally feel better about keeping Grandma alive in an Assisted Living closet on ventilators and I V drips than letting her pass in her bed surrounded by family. Grandma’s last chance to participate in the economy!
The problem I see. Grandma ain’t on a respirator, doesn’t need an IV drip, and is stubborn as hell! Yeah, she has trouble moving around, forgets stuff once in a while, or sits alone a little to often; but the only reason she went to Assisted Living is cause her family wouldn’t assist!

If that statement touches a nerve, go get Grandma and bring her home. If it doesn’t, you either were one if those folks who are really into the economy, or it was medically impossible for Grandma to stay at home and you weren’t ready to let her go.
I’m very aware of how my life is marketed by the economy. I know that marketing has turned this issue upside down and backwards to the point we believe that Assisted Living is the norm for end of life care. They have the “stones” to even show commercials with neatly dressed elderly folks smiling and walking around conversing with other healthy looking elderly folks. Makes no sense to me why they ain’t walking around their living room with family and smiling.

It also occurred to me that maybe all the while the industry is a conspiracy by the elderly to get away from some condescending child or grandchild and finally have some peace in their lives. The elderly make up for intelligence in some cases by their experiences. That’s one of the values they can pass on at home. Maybe they just put up with us once a week and put on a show. Then when we leave and the closet becomes a party like its 1969!!!

Poor Man’s meal.

It’s hell being poor.
I always thought that being poor was about not having stuff. You know how it is; you see the person with the nice clothes, or the new car and your wish list grows by the minute.

Even if you grew up with a little money you probably experienced at least a temporary poverty. Like the college student scrounging under the seat of the clunker for change to buy gas. Or maybe the young person fresh out of high school who was “just starting out” and money was tight. We all seem to experience a time when money was something other folks had.

I’ve come to realize that the impact of poverty and health is the real concern with money, or lack there of! Everyone is most likely familiar with the image of college students eating pizza, or the struggling family “scraping together money” to make the next meal. The quality of food available to “poor folks” is terrible.

We won’t even get into the preparation and portion issue.
We all know that processed food is convenient when time for meals interferes with time for making a dollar. “Grab it and go” is the way to go when you’re chasing a dollar.

Everyone who has had money but needed to hustle to keep it going probably cruised down the highway eating a Hot Dog and drinking a Coke dropping fries on the floorboard for later.

Supply doesn’t seem to be the problem when it comes to food and poverty in America. Demand is definitely there by the looks of things. It’s the type of food and how it’s prepared. We’re fooled into packaged convenient meals that are skillfully labeled to confuse the guy rushing through the grocery store grabbing the cheapest box in the freezer. Or the other dude that never sets foot in a grocery store except to pick up a woman. He’d rather “drive thru” and go ! Both guys are paying big bucks for plaque on installments as the percentage rate goes up.

Portions in freezer boxes will leave a working man gaunt. You have to eat three boxes if you have ever worked outdoors laboring for 4 hours at a stretch. Even the hungry man size meal would do good to feed an office worker on a good day. This is a marketing strategy. Someone makes more money if you buy more meals, and you will buy more meals.

The opposite is true of fast food. There portions are designed for big boys. The kids meal is probably the standard for portion size for adults. We may scoff at that idea, but our disdain is not based on science, it’s based on marketing and the triple size portion that’s only $1.19 more. That’s a deal!!!

The issue is so complex that their are several industries researching psychological assumptions of demographic values and belief systems to capitalize on every dollar you have or want.

The foods we ate, as a nation, in early years were good foods. They are inexpensive and fueled us towards longevity and quality of life that was comfortable. However, those folks who had a work ethic that would put us to shame are long gone. Labor wasn’t just for the poor back then.

The serving size of a 19th century citizen vs the 21st century citizen is definitely not the same spoonful. The preparation technique and time has been reduced from hours to seconds. So nowadays we have the twisted version of a meal that can sit on a shelf for another century and someone could put it in a box that will shoot microwaves through it, then a minute later the 22nd century man will have an antique meal. Although, he’ll probably say “yuck” and spit it out. Then he’ll go into his undersized cabinet and get a tube of steak and potatoes. Or he’ll drive to the local fast food joint and order a meal that resembles something from the 20th cartoon The Flintstones.

“The Family Meal” has been reduced to dinner. So I was thinking if you’re poor and don’t have to run around everywhere chasing a dream that’s really a fantasy, you could get back some of those meals and time by buying groceries and cooking them on a stove.

Then you could talk and eat breakfast, share stories at a lunch that was prepared, and relax at dinner discussing your day. This sounds absurd to those chasing the “American Fantasy”, I mean dream!

Or you could continue down the road talking or texting while eating out of cardboard of paper sack chasing the “Jone’s”. Just remember dreams don’t come true and being poor can be healthy!

The Couch

The Couch
My Dad always told me “You’re never gonna get anything done lying around.” He would tell me this often on Saturday mornings when I was planning on sleeping in. Of course my dad was ready to work on a car or do something in the yard. I would groan, and get up, then think to myself, “What’s wrong with a little Saturday morning Siesta.

He Also told me “Boy, it’s no wonder you never get nothin done, you’re always running your mouth.” You know how kids are. We never really leave the “Why” stage. We just keep asking questions and guessing at things until our Dad turns around and give us that, “Did I really father that boy.” look.

And when I made a mistake building the dog house he said, “Boy, if you stopped runnin your mouth for a minute you might learn something!” This was his saying for me when I was at that phase where I couldn’t work and talk at the same time. We could be working on the car and I would think about my bike. Then I would start talking about the newest “Sissy Bar ” that was on sale. Unbeknownst to me I would stop working in all my excitement, and then the “Did I father him.” look again!”

Well I have found later in life that Dad wasn’t exactly right about that. I followed his 20th century advice into the 21st century and imploded. I found myself in therapy breaking all my Dad’s rules about laying around and running my mouth, and learning more about myself and how to be successful everyday.

So now I lay on my therapist couch and run my mouth for an hour straight thinking, “If Dad could see me now.” I don’t really listen to my therapist, it’s her job to listen. So I just go on and on about every injustice in my life. And all the while she tells me I’m making progress, I love her. Then I think to myself, “Man, where was she twenty years ago when I needed her!” She could have helped with our paternity issues!

The Doctor and the Dealers

The doctor and the dealers spread a silent epidemic fueling the capitalist dream on the backs of the innocent, the unaware. No one is out of their reach.

Wether your hanging out in an office listening to classical music surrounded by neatly dressed professionals, or standing on a street corner listening to the latest track surrounded by short dresses and saggy pants; you’re in danger.

All of these characters deal death and destruction. This epidemic we call addiction is perpetrated on two fronts. Pain clinics and struggling medical groups have no incentive to send you away with advice, that’s economic suicide.

The dealer leaves no stone unturned. He knows you. He knows that the doctor will only supply you to his medical limit, so he waits. He knows your friend will come see him for you till the need overcomes the embarrassment, but he won’t judge you. He has lots of options.

And all the while the “Good Neighbor Pharmacist” is making money hand over fist as shit flies out windows and doors at an alarming rate. Not everyone needs a number and a seat to wait on their script to be rung up and handed over the counter. There are “delivery drivers”, assistants with financial needs, and other licensed pharmacist to lend their license when the “Good Neighbor” turns suspicious.

If your into the whole “Professional American” culture thing you’re probably thinking I’m just some silly activist type, which I’m not. It’s so clearly obvious that any idiot with an internet connection can look up the statistics on prescription drugs and overdose, but it’s easier to blame the addict. Those pills came from a pharmacy in your neighborhood, the addict isn’t the problem.

The doctor created the market that the pharmacist supplies, or the pharmacist decides to freelance and sell individual pills, or refill prescriptions before the date. They can raise prices on drugs they know are in demand. Look around you and I’m sure there’s a “Pain Management Clinic” near you. You can go there and report a particular pain level, (1-10) and come out with a prescription, the pharmacist knows what’s up. There are lists out there of doctors under investigation for the number of scripts they write. It’s obvious to the pharmacist that the prescription process is being abused by the doctor and the patient, but here we are again at the economic suicide point.

Don’t think these guys are any less resourceful than the dealer on the street who gets popped or pressured and moves to a new neighborhood. They aren’t any less resourceful when it comes to maintaining their economic status. If you’re a Doctor who has lost his license you can open a clinic, hire new Doctors to run it, and make more money than you did before. If your the pharmacist with a suspended license you can hire another pharmacist and use his license to continue doing business. Then just raise the price of OxyContin, Oxycodone, and Vicodin to offset the cost of another pharmacist. I don’t know this from professional research; I know this from the street dealer who doesn’t worry about his supply drying up when the Doctor of the people he pays to get prescription gets popped.

There is really no separation between the Doctors, Pharmacists, and the street dealer. They all are guilty, but only one goes to prison. It’s ok though, cause the folks doing the drugs and the guy handing him a bag of Xanax know it’s the cost of doing business. And like the Doctors and Pharmacists, they think it’s worth the risk. They don’t care about people, they focus on profit.

They don’t go to the funerals of their patents and hug the devastated families of the addicts they supply. They go to the bank and drive right past the widow to make a deposit or withdraw and head to the Caribbean for a much deserved vacation while someone you know mourns a loss!

Imprints

This memory isn’t mine. It’s from a wonderful person who lost love in a tragedy. I was fortunate enough to share moments with her where we explored each other’s drama, trauma, and loss. Two very different situations that allowed us to work through issues of loss, grief, and all the other situations that arise when we don’t understand what we are going through, and worst of all being alone. I understand friendship now, thanks Babe!!!!

Imprints,
Life was lucid while you were here, but your memory is vivid. I see the imprint of your spirit in every configuration of this living room I attempt. I can move the new couch, move the TV, even readjust the new photos; but I still wait for you to walk down that hallway with a smile and smart ass comment.

I still take sideways glances at where I found you. The couch is gone, like you, but the imprint of you sitting there in the shadows of the TV glow won’t go away. I see myself standing where I expect you to walk through. I see myself talking on the phone that I can’t remember where I got it from. I see myself frustrated at the 911 operator while I pound your chest. Then you’re gone and my last memory of us makes this house a grave site now. I don’t feel you at the cemetery, I feel you here.

The problem is that the house died with you. The silence reminds me of how loud your presence was. How alive we were even when we were just being a family. I can’t look out the window without seeing your memory cutting grass or playing with the boys. That was silent noise that made me smile.

We were supposed to grow old together. Now you left me with why? When you passed it wasn’t the ending, it was a beginning. The beginning of why, the beginning of my dreams, our dreams raining down like ash from a volcano. Now I realized I died that day also. I had to say goodbye to us, and the me I dreamt of for so many years. So who am I now. I’ve tried changing what I’d do and how I think, but all it does is remind me of why I’m changing, you!

Everyone tried to erase you for me, I was confused. I didn’t want you gone and now I was supposed to forget. So I ran. I ran from us, I ran from you, and all the fears and doubts of life without dreams. But I could never run far enough. You stayed with me like an imprint of us that masked every single dream I could muster. I saw you in everyone I saw and everything I did.

Now I’m exhausted to the point of numbness and I realize I just need to face you and take your smiles and smart ass comments with me as an anchor to a new life. A life that is clear of pain and hurt. A life with a new identity, I can’t be your widow anymore, I have to be me. And all those voices in the background that judge me, or know what’s good for me; well I’ve spent a little too much time alone to believe them anymore. This is something I have to do, for me.

I never dealt with you and it took three years to come to that wall. I realize now trying to erase you, get rid of the things that reminded me of you was stupid. You were never stuff, you were real and a part of me and all those folks with their intentions, good or bad, were wrong. Some were also traumatized while others were dramatized, but neither were really capable of helping me.

So there I lay that night with our two boys stunned into a place that no one could understand. I looked at those boys and felt the weight of you being gone not even understanding what that meant till today. People judged me, asked me if I realized my husband just died because of how I acted. Hell yeah I understood, I understood I just failed at life saving measures on a husband that was gone and now I’m mad as hell that no one understands shit and just wants me to be better so things can get back to normal. It seemed some folks were more concerned about my job as a nurse than how I was doing and what my plans were. Nobody hugged me that night that I remember, except my boys who shared tears they didn’t even understand either. I just needed to be hugged but everyone needing me to be someone I would never be again.

I realized right in the very seconds I was performing CPR with all my might and no results, no matter how hard I pumped your chest at attempts to make your heart beat…still nothing…trying to breathe life into your body…no air would pass through to your lungs…Just gurgling sounds…Tried everything I knew…attempted clearing your mouth and throat of fluids with our babies blue bulb syringe that was within hands reach and attempted breathing life into your mouth again…still nothing….All the while I’m yelling and screaming at you and screaming at the EMS lady on the phone and pumping as hard as I could…still nothing!!

EMS arrives and I am still pumping with hope that you would just breathe and wake up…they place pacer pads on and just watched as the flat line goes across the screen…everyone just standing there…not doing anything to save you…This angered me!

When you left everyone seemed to become spectators. Folks may think i distanced myself, but it seemed to me everyone just left me with their ideas of what I should do to forget everything and move on. Everyone gave their opinions on how I should feel when in fact they had no idea and could not even fathom how I felt inside. My best friend, my first and only lover, my husband, my secret keeper, my strength, my protector, my whole world, laying lifeless on the floor cold and blue while my babies at ages 3 yrs and 15 months were sleeping in their beds only to wake up to never seeing, hearing, touching, or feeling love from their daddy again!

This was real for me…damn it…you’re gone…This wasn’t suppose to happen…we were suppose to be old together when this happened….Our family we planned so strategically was lost. Our children were suppose to be grown and off in college doing amazing things with their lives from all we had planned to teach them.

Moving on couldn’t help. I just needed someone to be quiet, hold me, and listen to me think and allow me to process. While everyone saw grief and work scheduling. I saw bills that were behind, daycare costs that I didn’t have and a two little boys who needed mommy to figure it out. I understand the few folks that were close to us were also devastated. But that don’t get rid of a lonely feeling that turns to fear.

Alot of shit happened in a short amount of time. I listened to people and tried to forget, but in the end it turned out to be running. Now I’m here 3 years later staring at the same bowl that sat next to you full of peaches surrounded by the imprints of our life. I haven’t been able to make us a memory yet, cause I tried to forget when and what I should have remembered and remembered what I should have forgotten!

So here I am again at another new horizon. Probably a place I should have been earlier, but i had to take my route here. Others may have taken another road, but this is my life, my journey. I can’t leave you behind. Every smile and smart ass comment your boys make remind that we were once a bundle of love. We had our problems and our faults, but we had our family and my pictures affirm that only death could have taken that.

If you’re reading this and you were traumatized. I’m sorry, I know he was a charismatic character who affected many people when he passed. I appreciate whatever you tried to do, right or wrong. If you were dramatized and found yourself following my healing and enjoying the ups and downs of a widow; well you are gonna be disappointed now that I’m healed enough to move foreword. You’ll have to find someone else’s pain to lift you up. If you didn’t care one way or the other and thought it was just another tragedy, you missed the chance to be part of one hell of a love story that never ends, and I’m traveling with him in my heart to some wonderful places you’re not invited. The love that he had for me and his boys is stamped on my soul and the imprint of us is forever,

Yours Truly,
……………………………

The Teacher

The Teacher
She sits in the waiting room patiently while little Johnny climbs on the chair, drops the magazine, and drives her crazy. She wonders how Mom can just sit there!
Mom sits patiently reading her magazine while intermittently texting her friend about the latest news in the hood. Sporadically mom glares at Little Johnny, with an occasional threatening word about “when we get out of here…..”.
Ms. Teacher thinks of her classroom management techniques and how if Mom just redirects Little Johnny and questions him about the contents of the magazine he dropped the world would be in harmony again.
“Is that your magazine you dropped?”
She asks little Johnny thinking she’ll pass on some of her knowledge latently.
“No.”
Little Johnny answers a little suspiciously, sensing “this lady” might be somebody or know something.
“What is your name?”
The teacher asks thinking she has Little Johnnies attention.
“Stop bothering that woman, and sit down and read your magazine. What’d I tell you bout talkin to strangers.”
The mother warns. She’s annoyed Little Johnny caught the woman’s attention and distracted her from reading and texting.
“It’s ok.”
Ms. Teacher explains.
“I’m a school teacher and I understand children. He just needs a little direction.”
Ms. Teacher explains.
Mom texts her friend that she’ll text her back, she has a lesson to teach!
“I’m sorry Ma’am, I didn’t catch your name. You said something about being a teacher, but didn’t say what your name was. Furthermore, my boy don’t need direction, he needs correction. ”
Mom tells Ms Teacher.
“Well, I just thought I could help, seeing that your son was having trouble sitting still and was beginning to misbehave.”
Ms teacher stated with an air of authority.
“I see.”
Mom said with a hint of sarcasm. “So my boy is supposed to sit still and not move. And if he drops his magazine and climbs in his chair to get my attention, that’s misbehaving?”
Mom asks in a matter of fact tone.
“Well in my class students sit still and if they drop their books or move around at their desk they interrupt other students. So I usually redirect them by talking to them and moving close to them to get their attention.” Ms. Teacher stated proudly.
“Well that’s wonderful!”
Mom states curiously.
“But did you ever wonder where those kids learned to listen to you, or did you think you taught them to listen. And I don’t need to get close to Little Johnny or talk to get his attention. Cause I got one look where he knows I’m gonna whip his ass if he acts up. He also knows if his teacher sends a note home, it’s gonna get ugly in our house real quick, and I’m the nice one. His Daddy can breathe fear into that boy Ma’am, it seems to me you could use a lesson in manners yourself. My boy been sittin here 45 minutes puttin up with this obnoxious music and stares from you that have enough judgement in them to run a courtroom. Yet he stays right here next to his momma and does just about what I allow him, that’s pretty good for six!
Mom says proudly.
“This ain’t no classroom and you need to remember I taught this boy to go to school and behave, just like I’m sure the parents of your students taught their children to do. So before you start correcting my boy, remember, I ain’t gonna tell you how to be a teacher and you ain’t gonna tell me how to be a mom. And if my boy moves around too much or does something to annoy you. Just remember that when he’s with me he’s a boy and when he’s at school he’s a student. And those are two very different animals. Come on Little Johnny, tell the nice lady thank you and goodbye we have to get to karate class! ”
“By Ms. Lady!”
Little Johnny says as he smiles and walks away proudly holding his Momma’s hand.
“You sure taught her a lesson Momma!”
Johnny says as his Momma smiles. “Never to smart to learn boy!
Momma says as she buckles Little Johnny’s car seat and kisses him on the forehead!

New Cars and Friends

I remember cruising around in my Vette. I had it in my garage for eight months apart. All the parts labeled in bags and boxes.
I worked on that body sanding, classing, sanding, then primer. I spent hundreds of hours and knew every little defect.
I chose to have it painted by a local guy who specialized in Vettes. $5,000 later I was cruising! Riding around showing off my new 1987 Convertible Vette, and as I was driving I noticed every other Vette out there.
Doesn’t matter what car you drive, we all had that experience of getting a car then noticing them everywhere. You suddenly realize there’s 1,000 grey dodge 1500’s riding around when before you only saw the one in the showroom.
I use this experience in life because its like that with friends too. You put alot of time into them and eventually know every little defect. You spend lots of time and money riding around with them and then you notice that there are alot of friends around like them.
Hopefully you find the one who was on the showroom floor. The one that shines and you have lots of plans on making better. That’s the one that you keep forever and pass on to your loved ones.
If by chance you get the clunker it’s ok to put some time and effort into making it better. You may even have to rebuild it. If it still ain’t reliable you have two choices. Leave it as a lawn ornament as an embarrassment to folks you know, or tow it to the junkyard and pray that some of the parts are salvageable for someone else.