Quote Unquote, or Don't Forget I am NEVER Wrong!

I will mourn the loss of thousands of precious lives, but I will not rejoice in the death of one, not even an enemy. “Returning hate for hate multiplies hate, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars. Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate, only love can do that.” -- Martin Luther King, Jr.

Unless you don’t do the whole Facebook thing, or you don’t watch the news, you’ve seen or heard about this quote.  Lots of hullaballoo about it.  Did MLK say it?  Yes.  No.  On and on.  A little research would solve this whole dilemma, but it seems no one knows how to do it.

But I did.  Because I used it on a posting and someone jumped on it and told me it was mis-attributed.  So I checked.  Which I should have done in the first place.  Silly me.  Expecting the people who FB to be concerned about correct.

And I discovered that it all depends on where you put the quotation marks.

Seems the first sentence was written by a FBer (I can’t track down the true identity for certain and I don’t care enough at this point to pursue it any further) and the rest was, indeed by Dr. King.  The passage comes from his 1963 book Strength to Love: 

Returning hate for hate multiplies hate, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars. Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that. Hate multiplies hate, violence multiplies violence, and toughness multiplies toughness in a descending spiral of destruction. So when Jesus says "Love your enemies," he is setting forth a profound and ultimately inescapable admonition. ... The chain reaction of evil — hate begetting hate, wars producing more wars — must be broken, or we shall be plunged into the dark abyss of annihilation.

So why am I coming out of my long silence to write about something trivial like this?

It’s not to preach the importance of proper punctuation, although that is important. 

It’s not to preach the importance of checking something out before you say it, although that, too, is important.

It’s not even to comment on Dr. King’s quote, although it is a powerful and profound sentiment.

It’s to remind folks that I am NEVER wrong!  After I posted the first quote and was questioned about it, I did my research and went back and explained where my mistake was.  THEN this morning some little chit comes on and says I am still wrong and that there was a news story and everything saying the whole thing was made up.

Grrrrr

I wanted to go smack her for being stupid.  Obviously she didn’t really listen to the whole story (I have no illusions that she READ it anywhere!).  And if she read my initial response she would have seen the correction and source information.  But noooo-ooooo.  It’s much more fun to jump on the bandwagon and say what everyone else says, and then feel all superior and smart.

Dumb bimbo.

(Note to anyone who is reading this…..I am just having a little fun at some nameless gal’s expense.  But remember, I am NEVER wrong!  Even when I spend half of this blog talking about the initial mistake I made!)

Remembering Oklahoma City, April 19, 1995

It's an iconic photo.  Part of America's history.  An image of a tragedy in my country.  One lone portrayal capable of humanizing an epic slaughter in a city I know and love.  Since that day in 1995 we have, unfortunately, faced even greater destruction of American lives in this country - Washington DC; Shanksville, PA; New York City.

As a historian I am accustomed to studying death and tragedy.  Wars and rebellions.  Massacres and individual murders.  My hobby honors those who fought and died in the US Civil War.  I have visited many of the monuments and cemeteries in this nation which honor and remember those who died:  large national graveyards, small roadside memorials, memorials that strive to teach and remember and explain, and those which simply are.  Each one is a poignant reminder of those whose lives were cut short by war, by murder, by nature.

I visit them and I try to maintain a professional cool.  I take photos.  I make notes of architectural styles, the poems and other written words and how they are used to direct our thoughts a certain way.  I note whose names are missing (the hijackers of Flight 93 are not mentioned by name anywhere in the memorial, even the transcripts of the cockpit voice recorder simply list them as "male voice in Arabic" or "hijacker"). 

But the historian always loses out to the person.  I become a mother who looks at row upon row of tombstones or tiny chairs or endless names and thinks of the devastation my only son's death would wreak on my life.  I read the mementos, the letters, the testimonies, I see the little handmade items brimming with love and longing and my heart nearly breaks for the sorrow of the mourners.

George Santayana said that those who forget history are doomed to repeat it.  Albert Einstein is (improperly) credited with saying that the definition of doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results is the definition of insanity.  I cross this great nation of ours and see these memorials to insanity and forgetfulness (or read the paper or watch the news) and I despair.  Are we doomed to forever be ruled by and ruined by a few petty individuals who have no regard for life and love and hope and humanity?

But I remember what Mahatma Gandhi said.  "Remember that all through history the way of truth and love has always won.  There have been tyrants and murderers and for a time they seem invincible but in the end, they always fall -- think of it:  always."   And Robert F. Kennedy gives me hope with his reminder that "It is from numberless diverse acts of courage and belief that human history is shaped.  Each time a man stands up for an ideal, or acts to improve the lot of others, or strikes out against injustice, he sends forth a tiny ripple of hope."

So perhaps these photographs and monuments and memorials are here to remind of what we have lost, but also to remind up that in the end evil loses, and that in each tragedy or war or massacre there are also stories of heroism and bravery and goodness and love.

Today as I remember the horror and fear that was perpetrated on 168 people in Oklahoma City - and their families and friends, their city, their state, their nation - I will also remind myself that there were brave men and women who leaped to assist, who rendered aid, who comforted the terrified and grieving, and who immediately got to work to find and punish those responsible for this evil.  And I will take comfort and hope.



History has demonstrated that the most notable winners usually encountered heartbreaking obstacles before they triumphed.  They won because they refused to become discouraged by their defeats. - B.C. Forbes

Woke him up screaming two nights in a row

Poor Scott, it was his Spring Break last week, and he wanted to stay up late and sleep in until noon, and two nights in a row my screaming woke him up out of a dead sleep.

Normally I am not a screamer.  Not that kind, either.  ;-)  I am quiet and reserved just about all of the time.  Even nightmares don't set me to hollering.  I might be too scared to sleep without all of the lights on, but I rarely make any noise.

But last week.....well that was a different story.

The first night was totally Scott's fault.  HE was having the vivid dream, in which he was arguing with his brother, John.  To make a point about how serious he was, Scott pinched John's arm.  Only it wasn't John's arm.  It was me who got pinched.  Imagine you are blamelessly sleeping away, not hogging the covers, not stealing pillows, not taking up more than your share of the bed, when you are wakened up by your beloved viciously pinching you.  Yep, I woke up to the sound of my screaming (and a severe pain that ended up in a bruise).  Poor Scott was scared out of his mind from HIS deep sleep.  We laughed it off shakily and went back to sleep.

The next night I dreamed that I was in a bowling alley after hours (do not ask me why, I don't recall anymore, but as is always true in dreams, it made sense then).  Scott and the bowling alley owner were out in the parking lot discussing who knows what.  The bowling alley suddenly got dark as the security system kicked in.  Afraid that I would set off sirens I tried to hold still.  (see, quiet and unassuming)  But I heard the ominous sound of claws tick, tick, ticking across the floor.  I held my breath as they approached, and then I felt a large dog's breath on my face.  (I forgot to mention that for whatever reason, I was sitting on the floor)  I scrambled for my cell phone to turn on the flashlight, only to see a large Doberman Pinscher about to take a bite out of my face (he, too, was quiet and unassuming in his attempts to maul me!)  I grabbed his snout with both hands to keep his mouth closed, but he easily flicked my hands off of him and lunged for my face.  I tried to scream and nothing came out, so I inhaled deeply and let 'er rip.

Scared the holy bejezus out of Scott on that one.  Scared me, too.  He asked if I was okay, I apologized profusely, and we fell back to sleep.  With no more dreams and no more screams.  The next morning I explained my dream and we could not figure out what might have triggered such a dream.  We make terrible dream analysts, I guess.

Luckily, the next couple nights were scream-free.  Which is fortunate, since I think Scott would have suggested I sleep on the couch if I did THAT again!

Sweet dreams to you all!

Good job!

(Note:  The purpose of this blog is not to have my friends tell me how great I am, but to challenge all of us to look for the great people around us every day.)

My dad and mom always taught me to say "thank you" to people who provided me with assistance.  By their examples, I learned to truly appreciate it when someone went the extra mile for me, or spent the time to provide excellent service, or went above and beyond to help me.  My parents caused me to see and realize that while we all enjoy great customer service, we tolerate mediocre service, and when someone really truly provided service, they deserved to be noticed and appreciated. 

My dad, in particular, taught me that if someone was particularly good at his or her job, it wasn't sufficient to simply tell them thank you.  I recall several times when we had to wait for a frazzled manager to appear so that my dad could tell him or her that our waiter, or the clerk, or the front desk person gave excellent service and he wanted the manager to know that this employee was an ideal representative for that particular company.

In my job I help a lot of people.  I like what I do, and I really appreciate it when a taxpayer tells me that I really helped them, or I made a difficult situation seem possible to resolve, or that I was very kind and helpful.  I have to admit, it feels good to receive a compliment like those.  My goal is to provide excellent customer service, to give the IRS a better reputation, and to make the taxpayer feel respected - not stupid for asking a question.

But yesterday I received a copy of an email that my boss sent to the director of our whole branch.  Seems a taxpayer that I assisted called my manager and told her how much she appreciated my help.  My manager passed that little tidbit along and I received a letter from our big boss thanking me for my work.  I have to tell you, it felt pretty darned good!

And it made me realize that there are literally dozens of people with whom I come in contact every week who provide services to me.  Most of them are so-so at best, but every once in a while someone really makes a difference.  Sadly, I hadn't thought about thanking them and telling their bosses what a fantastic employee they have.  So my challenge to myself - and you! - is to find one person this week who really shone when they did their job, and then let their boss know.  Maybe it's the guy at Starbucks, the gal at the tire center, the driver of the bus, the clerk at the grocery store, the gas station attendant.  And yes, I know, sometimes the manager isn't there, so that means we actually may have to take the time to get a phone number or address and then remember to call or write or email.  But I have faith in us.  We're grown ups.

Because, after all, if we want to continue to receive good service, no - if we want to continue to receive excellent service, then we have to let these good folks know that they are appreciated, and that the time and effort they put into their jobs is noticed and appreciated.

And to those of you who read every silly word I write, thank you for making me feel like I make sense!

Why 101 Things in 1001 Days?

I have had several people ask me why I am bothering with my 101 goals in 1001 days.  Folks at work see me with my binder, working on things, checking off items, doing research, and they ask.  Family members have wondered out loud why I need something so formal as a list of goals with a specific due date for completing them.  A few friends have suggested that I am only setting my self for failure and disappointment with such a long and varied list.

Usually I just laugh it off and say that it gives me something to do to keep out of trouble. 

But I have a reason for each and every goal that I have listed.  They are more than desires, they are more than dreams or wishes.  These are things that I want for very real, very personal, very tangible reasons.  These are things that, if I didn't do them, I would feel like I had let myself down, that I had settled for less than I could be or do or make out of my life.

And I don't know about you, but I rend to get overwhelmed by all the things that "need" to be done every day.  I find myself faced with so many things calling for my time and attention that I don't accomplish anything by the end of the day.

But this list keeps me grounded.  When I have a few hours of "free" time, I can turn to my list and work on the next item that strikes my fancy.  Make a list of all of Katharine Hepburn's movies.  Design the quilt for Scott.  Window shop online for new dishes.  Cut out the canvas for my floor. 

By having this list, I am getting things finished that I know I would still simply be wanting to have done.  My dad's scrapbook is completed.  It took me almost 5 years to do it.  Well, actually, it took me about 5 days, spread out over 5 years.  And now I ma halfway to having the one for my mom's side of the family completed as well.

I have almost stopped dropping f-bombs.  Checked the 7 day goal off the list, and I am now on day 16 of the 30 day goal.  I think I am going to do it, and that makes me really happy. 

Flowers, calling my mom weekly, writing to my family members, these are all little things that make me happy, that make me feel like I am in touch with the nice and good things in my world.  So while you might not care about flowers at all, mine make me smile every time I see them.  And there is no such thing as too much happiness in life.

There are a number of physical challenges on my list.  Things I want to be able to say that I have done to prove to myself that I am capable and confident.  But up until now they have been simply dreams.  With my list, I am now moving forward in making these dreams a reality.  I am finding out the amount of planning an preparation that is required for each one, and finding ways to work on each little step. 

To those who think I have bitten off more than I can chew, I respectfully disagree.  And I guess only time will tell.  Yes, there are a lot of things still to be accomplished.  And it is possible that I won't be able to say "DONE!" on the 1001st day.  But I am not worrying about that right now.  I believe that I can accomplish each and every one of those 101 items.  On the cover of my 101 Things in 1001 Days binder I have the following quote:

Impossible is just a big word thrown around by small men who find it easier to live the world they've been given than to explore the power they have to change it. Impossible is not a fact. It's an opinion. Impossible is not a declaration. It's a dare. Impossible is potential. Impossible is temporary. Impossible is nothing.

Remember, I have completed two marathons! 

Looking forward to some dog days

This is an Irish Wolfhound.  Kinda big, huh?  It's the kind of dog I would really really like to have, if I could have a dog.  But the amount of space needed to keep it happy - and the amount of food!  So I have had to adjust my sights to something a bit more realistic.

Years ago, when I was a junior in high school, I bought a cut little puppy at the pound.  The man at the pound assured me that the puppy would not grow up to be very large - a requirement that Mom laid out.  The cute little puppy, Frisky, turned out to be a German Shepherd, weighing in at 95 pounds.  He was gorgeous, full of energy, huge, and a tad bit bonkers. 

                                     (This isn't Frisky, but it is a German Shepherd, so it will do)

Frisky loved people and when someone would come to the door Frisky didn't bark at them.  Or bite them.  Or jump up on them.  No, Frisky would wag, wag, wag his tail and squirm closer and closer to the visitor, and then he got so excited he peed on their feet.

Frisky came to a sad end which I won't detail here, but I have always longed for a large dog since then.

My next dog was the polar opposite of my previous big dog.  He was Kermit, a toy poodle.  So much for my big dogs, right?  He really was never my dog, though.  Yes, I was the one who brought him home, but I was a college student, and couldn't take him with me back to the dorms, so my Mom agreed to keep Kermie for a while.  She kept him for 12 years until his death.

                                         (Again, not Kermit, but this guy could be his brother!)


My husband is allergic to dogs and cats, so we can't have an indoor dog.  But some day, when we get a little land so that a dog could be outside with room to roam, we will get my German Shepherd.  Once again, I will have a big dog to run with, play with, and rely on for some protection.

I just hope he doesn't pee on your feet.

Time to turn on your brain....me too!

Not sure you can see this very well, but it is a little snowman I built on the hood of our truck yesterday morning.  He lasted about a mile and then sailed off in a flurry of snow and wooden arms.  The photo has nothing to do with this blog; I just thought he was cute and wanted to share him.

A few days ago a friend called me at my cell phone number from his cell phone.  The reception was so poor I could barely hear him and he thought I didn't know him or was angry with him.  I spend all day on the phone at work, and sometimes I can barely hear or understand callers who are using their cell phones. 

It got me to thinking that we are pretty stupid people.

I am old enough to remember when the only phone anyone had was a land line.  And you expected crystal clear connections every time you made or received a call.  Static on the line was unacceptable.  Voices fading in and out was unacceptable.  And dropped calls?  Not tolerated.  Once you were connected you expected to stay connected unless a) one of you hung up, or b) a phone line went down.  Otherwise, there was no acceptable excuse for being disconnected before you hung up.

I am also old enough to remember when there was this room in every house called a kitchen.  It had appliances in it designed to store, prepare, and cook food that was later served in a meal at a table where all of the family members would gather, sit, eat, and enjoy the food and the company.  Sure, there was a certain amount of work involved in the overall preparation and cleanup of the meals, and the quality and quantity of the food in the meals varied, there weren't always a lot of food choices within the meal, and sometimes you were served something that you would rather die than eat (liver and onions with a side of lima beans and mashed potatoes from a box immediately comes to mind).  But overall, the meals I ate at home - whether cooked by Mom, a grandma, or myself - were good meals.

Here's the part about us being stupid....

We have let marketers sell us quite the bill of goods.  We have decided to sacrifice quality for "convenience".  I put convenience in quotation marks for a reason.  As a HUGE fan of my smarter-than-me phone, I love being able to check my emails on breaks at work.  I love being able to make phone calls from my car (hands-free of course, and always paying attention to the road).  I love being able to take a picture and immediately send it to my friends and my "friends" world-wide.  But I lived without all of these things just a few years ago.  My life will not end if I don't check my emails until I get home at night.  I do have the weekend for calling my family in far-off and exotic locations like Miami and Pittsburgh.  And I am not convinced that the world is any better for seeing a photograph of my front yard with snow in it.

Sure, my phone is fun.  Sure, there are times when it makes life easier.  But is it any better when I have conversations that sound like this:  "What?.....Wait, I didn't hear that last bit.....You're breaking up.......Crap, we're heading into a tunnel, so if I lose you I'll call you back on the other side."  Really?  That is considered convenience?  And no, this is not because of my carrier.  I have had two, and the problems are real, regardless of who provides your cell phone service.  Admit it, your cell phone's reception is not as good as that of your land line.  Or at least your pre-VOIP land-line.

And we have accepted the premise that the convenience of frozen food, boxed meals, deli food, fast-food and most restaurant food is the most important factor in choosing our meals.  So what if the food isn't really made the way we like it?  So what if it is five to twenty times more expensive than the cost of making the identical meal at home?  So what if it isn't the healthiest choice available?  We believe that we are busy busy people with too much to do and too little time to do it.  Something has to give, and it sure isn't going to be our favorite TV shows, or our busy after school schedules, or our time on Facebook.  And besides, we are tired, and we worked hard all day, so the last thing we want to do is cook when we get home.  So is it Taco Bell or Applebee's or Papa Murphy's, or Stouffers tonight?

I don't consider myself a Luddite.  I like my technology just fine.  I don't understand it.  I still have to call my son for "tech support"  But I am not advocating throwing out our cell phones and other technology.

And I am not saying that we should stay home and be housewives or househusbands simply to provide cooked meals for our families.

But I am saying that we have bought the marketing hook line, and sinker. 

We don't even think about what we do anymore.  We have become brainwashed into thinking that "convenience" is about being available to anyone and everyone, and having anyone and everything at our fingertips, 24/7.  We believe that we are too busy to be bothered with cooking and that processed and pre-packaged foods taste good enough.  (I will always contend that Mom's spaghetti sauce beats the pants off of Olive Garden any day, and anyone's grilled burgers taste better than Burger King's flame broiled and microwaved burgers)

No, I am not arguing for getting rid of all of this, or even any of it.  I am simply asking us all to think about what we are doing.  To consider our choices.  And then to really make a choice and not allow some really clever marketer to lead us around by our ears, our bellies, and our egos.

Assuming

You've heard the jokes about don't assume because it makes an ass out of you and me.  (I first heard that while watching The Bad News Bears....how's that for old?!)  But let's face it.  We all make assumptions all the time.  You have to.  Can you imagine checking and double checking everything all day?  You assume that your car is where you left it.  You don't go out and check every once in a while to verify that it is still there.  We assume that our key still works in the front door of our house.  We don't check it before we leave to make certain that we can get back in the house at the end of the day.  I wake up assuming that the laws of gravity still operate.  I don't throw a pillow on the floor just to make sure that it falls rather than floats.

We assume, and we really do have to.

But sometimes our assumptions can cause unintentional problems.  Thus all the "ass-u-me" jokes.

In my job we emphasize communication.  It's very important to communicate well, considering the kinds of questions we are required to answer.  And one of the things they teach us is to state all of our assumptions.  So if you called to ask me a tax question and didn't specifically say that you were talking about your 2010 taxes, I would have to tell you that I am making that assumption.  And that I assume you are talking about your personal, rather than your business, tax return.  Seems silly, right?  But laws change, and the rules for personal and business returns are different.  So those assumptions can be a big deal.

Yesterday I spoke to a young lady with a question.  I stated my assumptions and it startled her to hear such, to her, obvious statements being made.  And she asked me why I was doing what I was doing.  Once I explained she said, "Oh, what a great idea!  Wouldn't it be wonderful if everyone had to do that?"

I don't know if she was simply referring to customer service-type situations, or about people in general, but I have to agree that it would be wonderful if we all stated our assumptions up front.  When I tell you my assumptions about your taxes you can either agree with me, and we move on, or you correct me, and I adjust my way of thinking, and we move on.

Imagine if that is how all of our conversations proceeded.  No more false assumptions based on clothes, hair styles, method of transportation, the people we associate with, our jobs, our houses, our cars, our mothers, out housekeeping, our diets, and on and on.  If we had the courage to state our assumptions, no, if we knew that, like my job, it was a requirement to state all assumptions, we would be more cautious about the assumptions we make.  Imagine not assuming that woman on the bus with twenty eleven packages and four layers of outdoor clothing on is a homeless person (maybe she has no other way to travel but by bus, and can only make one trip to the store a month and it is February after all).  Or not assuming that the man with slurred speech is drunk (did you know that a number of medications can cause slurred speech, and stroke victims may also find that their speech is no longer clear?)  If we didn't assume all "fringe" people were radicals, or that our way of living is the only acceptable way to live, or that there is only one right way to hold a pencil.....

I could go on and on.

But I would challenge you today to examine your assumptions.  Think about what you are assuming as you come across various people, even your family.  Ask yourself if those assumptions are valid.  Maybe even state an assumption or two and prepare to be amazed.

I assume you can do it.

And I assume that you will!


And in case you like the tshirt.....To Save Time Lets Just Assume I'm Never Wrong Women's Tee Shirt  Medium-Light Blue Babydoll (petite fit); Let's Assume I'm Never Wrong Magentic Mini Tin

DANGER: Poking into the past can be interesting AND troubling

Last night I completed another item on my 101 things to accomplish in 1001 days.  I finished my Dad's side of the family's scrapbook.  Initially it was just to be about my Dad, but it morphed into the entire James family, from the late 1600s to my Dad's death in 2006.

I have already shared with you the story of my Civil War relative with PTSD who left his wife.  But he is not the most interesting person in my family tree.  There was a woman in the early 1800s who gave birth out of wedlock to a son.  Scandalous enough for the time, but the father of the baby was a Native American.  Family legend has the father being a famous chief.  Pretty cool, huh?  However, I am a historian and wanted to know the facts, so I roped my son in to assist me and we determined that more than likely we are NOT descended from this chief.  If I could locate any of my Uncle Bill's sons and get one of them to submit to DNA testing we could determine the truth for certain (apparently the testing has to be done on a son of a son.....so those three are the only ones who qualify out of all 34 of my cousins).

Then there was another lady who was really cranky.  At least I assume so, based on her will.  She tells her three daughters they get nothing since she already took care of their weddings.  One son gets $5, the other gets all of her land - over 100 acres, with the house, barn, various out buildings, all the livestock, and farm implements.  But only on the condition that he provide her a place to live, takes care of her through her final days, and provides a proper funeral and burial.  If he fails, everything goes to the $5 brother.  Needless to say, the son did his duty and got his big fat inheritance.  I am sure the family did NOT get together for Christmas after that will!

More recently, my father's grandfather is supposed to have committed suicide.  I have several newspaper clippings regarding his death and the police investigation.  Seems his beloved first wife died and he remarried.  But his second wife was a bit of a disappointment.  They did not get along well.  But he didn't seem to be depressed or distraught about it.  So everyone was surprised when wife #2 came screaming out the front door that John (my family is big on naming everyone either William or John.....they litter the records and only middle initials make it at all possible to keep track of who you are talking about) had killed himself. 

The police investigated and sure enough, there lay John on the bathroom floor, blood everywhere, his throat slit, an apparent suicide.

But the family didn't buy it.  All of John's children were grown and gone so no one was home but John and wife #2, so there are no other accounts to belie her story.  The police ruled it a suicide in spite of the other questionable evidence, which would have made for a great CSI episode.  This was the late 20s or early 30s, so no forensic units, no blood spatter patterns, no rigorous questioning of the witness.  John's now widow was covered in blood, but that could be explained by here bursting into the bathroom and cradling her dead husband.  But there were one or two little bitty items that no one bothered to ask about.  Maybe it was easier to label him a suicide and move on.  Maybe the police chief was inept.  Maybe he didn't like Great-Grandpa John.  Who knows?

But the questions that my grandpa always asked started with:  Where was the weapon?  Wouldn't a suicide still be holding the straight razor, or at least wouldn't it be on the floor near his body?  You'd think so, but it wasn't.  Turns out my great-grandfather slit his throat (if you believe his widow's story and the evidence of the facts) and then threw the straight razor into the toilet (the razor was indeed found in the plumbing leading from the toilet), then flushed the toilet (the old fashioned kind with a chain from the overhead tank) and then died.  Pretty amazing feat, huh?

Wife #2/widow provided what my Grandpa James always considered to be further evidence of her guilt.  A few years after the death of her husband (also her second) she was admitted into the state mental hospital where she remained for the rest of her life.  I don't know if she was sent there by her children, if she admitted herself, or if the police had something to do with it.  My Grandpa James always insisted that her final years in the mental hospital prove that she was crazy and that she was capable of, and indeed did, murder her own husband.

I'm just glad that she isn't related to me except through marriage!

Now that I have my Dad's side of the family's scrapbook complete, I want to start working on my Mom's side of the family.  There won't be as much drama, mental illness, and kooky behavior (my Dad's family is Welsh and Irish, Mom's is German and English, so they are much more respectable) but there are some war heroes and one murder victim where I am 100% certain that the men they hanged for that crime were innocent and were simply victims of local bigotry and prejudice.

But I'll save that story for another day.

New Funky Barely-There Running Shoes

Here are my new running shoes:  Vibram KSOs.  Initially I wanted Bikilas, but they fit too snugly across the top of my foot and a larger size didn't help.  So I switched to the KSOs and they fit like a glove.  Literally.  Slip one on your foot, wrangle the pinkie toe into its place, and then the rest follow relatively obediently.

I'm not a fan of pink, but I liked these better than the all black ones, so I'm going to wear pink shoes this year.

Walking in them is supposed to get your feet accustomed to the different way of walking, but, to be honest, I am such a bare footed gal anyway, that I don't think wearing them for two weeks will do diddly squat.  This morning I decided to take them out for a spin. 

Jackie has me scheduled for a 5 miler today, but I knew that wouldn't happen in these.  (sorry Jackie - off plan already!)  It was a bright, sunny, cold morning when I hit the trail.  There wasn't enough wind to make me want a coat, but there was enough sun to make me thankful for my sunglasses.  Long sleeves, gloves, and I was ready to try out my new running shoes.

Folks will tell you that running barefooted or in minimalist shoes works different muscles.  I have no idea what they are talking about.  Everything was the same, my foot strike, the muscles that are used, the way it feels running in Vibrams. 

Okay, I lie.  It was a TOTALLY different feeling.  Sure, you could choose to run in the now-normal heel-striking method that we have all grown accustomed to using with our heavily padded shoes.  But to do so would create havoc on your heels in short order.  Those of us with plantar fasciitis and/or heel spurs would be in agony after five minutes of slamming our poor heels into the pavement with nothing but a thin layer of rubber merely designed to protect your skin from rocks, gravel, glass (and dog poop!)  I thought it might feel awkward or unnatural to run with the ball or forefoot of my feet striking the ground first, and was sort of afraid I would look like some sort of goofball prancing along, but I quickly and comfortably settled into a rhythm and method that worked well for me, didn't feel unnatural, and didn't make me look too odd (I mean we are talking about a nearly 48 year old, overweight woman in spandex - who is going to notice how I run!?!)


I promised myself (and all of my running friends, both real and virtual) that I would only run a mile today.  But as I started getting into the groove I wondered how far I could go.  I felt good.  I wasn't laboring.  My breathing didn't sound like I was about to keel over and die.  I didn't feel that I was struggling to maintain my pace (although it was still my normal "slow" speed).  And, glory be!, my weren't making snotty, rude, or obscene comments as they slammed into the pavement.  How 'bout the balls of my feet?  Were they in throes of agony instead?  Nope, they were fine.  No complaints from them.

A little over 3/4 of a mile into my run I discovered that yes indeed ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, running in bare, or nearly bare, feet is substantially different than running in modern running shoes.  You use different muscles.  My calves, never fans of my running on a good day, were beginning to make noises.  My hamstrings were waking up and not liking the fact that they were being used to propel me forward.  The arches of my feet were mildly protesting the excess stretching that was required of them.  And my ankle muscles (I assume you have muscles in your ankles) - they were whining and complaining about the demands that my new style of running was making on their little pampered selves.

I finished the mile and then did a tiny bit more just to prove that I could, cooled down and stretched.  Drove home and passed my next test - I was able to get out of the car without limping or hobbling, something that I often do after a particularly difficult run coupled with insufficient stretching.  Since then I have spent over an hour sitting still while I ate lunch and read, and once again, was able to stand and walk without  the usual need to "warm up" to get things moving in the proper direction and coherently.  It's now 5 hours since my run and I just got up and began walking to prove that I can do it without the ordinary post-run aches and stiffness.

Yes, yes, I only ran a mile.  And tomorrow will tell how I really feel post-run.  But I think I may have hit upon the proper shoe for me.  Less, not more, is what I needed.  As a child I spent most of the spring, all of the summer, and as many fall days as I could get away with it, in my bare feet.  I climbed trees, waded in creeks, ran across gravel, played soccer in the street, all without the benefit of shoes.  We get too much cold rainy weather and I am required to wear shoes at work, so I don't think running barefooted is going to ever be a practical option for me.  But these, my minimalist Vibrams, may very well provide the happy medium I need to become a successful runner.  Could I run a marathon in these shoes?  I don't know.  Those of us who have run the marathons know that one mile is nothing compared to the following 25.2.



I am sure that I will have more to say about these shoes as I strengthen my muscles and build up the mileage.  Stay tuned!

Vibram Fivefingers Womens KSO Grey/Fuschia/Grey 41

These boots were made for walking

I did not grow up on a ranch or farm.  Didn't spend a lot of time around cowboys.  Didn't ever have a horse (although there was that memorable year my sister and I were allowed to ride a horse that belonged to another family in order to get him ready for sale).  Currently live in Suburbia, where there is nothing even close to a cowboy. 

Yet I long for a pair of cowboy boots.  I used to own a pair.  Tan suede.  Nothing fancy.  Yet when I worse them I felt like a different person.  Confident.  Capable.  And, yes, sexy.  I wore them with jeans and skirts and just about everything I owned.  I did not wear them with shorts.  (Sorry, that seems like a silly fashion statement to me.  What is it saying:  "I forgot to shave but I want to wear shorts"?)

Sadly, the soles wore out.  I considered getting re-soled and that's when I really looked at them.  The years of living in Portland and wearing them in the rain had taken their toll.  They really didn't look all that great any longer.  Pretty ratty, actually.  Not only were the soles in need of replacing - the toes and back of the heels had been scuffed so much they were no longer suede, but shiny leather.  And they were dirty.  So I threw them away, figuring I could always buy another pair.

Now here we are, more than 10 years later, and still no boots in my closet.  About a million pair of sensible flat black shoes.  But nothing that makes me feel different. 

Thus item #59 on my list of 101 things to do in 1001 days:  Own a pair of kick-ass cowboy boots.

I spent several hours looking online at various boots.  Went to the local feed store where they sell boots and Wranglers and dinner-plate sized belt buckles.  (who knew there was a market for these things in Gresham, OR?!)

And I have finally found them - the boots that I want.  Fancier than the ones I used to own.  But not Texas State Fair Rodeo Queen fancy.  I like that the toes and instep look like normal, brown cowboy boots and it's not until you see the shaft that you know there is anything unique or fancy about them.  So in jeans, they will look like plain old boots.  (I like to think that they are a sort of reflection of me...to look at me you would think that I am a normal middle-aged wife and mother.  But there is more to me than meets the eye.)

But I'll know. 

My blood type

I was born and raised in Steeler Country.  I am a member of the Steeler Nation, and I bleed black and gold.  I remember the Immaculate Reception. I remember the Steel Curtain.  Mean Joe Greene.  Jack Lambert.  Ham.  Bradshaw.  Franco Harris.  Lynn Swann.  Chuck Noll.  Myron Cope - yoi!

I made a celebratory cake designed to look like the Terrible Towel after we won our fourth Super Bowl.

I adore the Rooneys and trust them to make the right choices for the team.  They have proven themselves right time and time again, both in choosing the right players to become Steelers, in letting the wrong players go, and in standing behind Big Ben.  The choice of Mike Tomlin surprised us all - and we are delighted with the foresight and wisdom behind our amazing new young coach.

The Rooneys and the Steeler Nation think of themselves as all part of the same Steeler Family.  And the Steelers were some of the glue that held my father and I together when I was a teen and parents were the worst invention ever.  (I am still jealous that my sister, Barb, got to run a race with my dad and a group of the Steelers back in the day - what a treat!)  My son was taught from birth to be a Steeler, and to hate the Cowboys, the Raiders, the Brownies, and now the Ravens.  Just as a common love of the Steelers bridged the inevitable gap between my dad and I, it did the same thing for my son and I years later.  And that common love for the Steelers has given my 10-year-old nephew and I something to talk and text about although separated by over 3000 miles.

So, as you can imagine, I was thrilled when the Steelers made it to the Super Bowl.  With six Super Bowl rings firmly on our hands, we were dreaming of number seven.  My husband, a native Oregonian, and my father-in-law, also a PNW-er, were amazed that the score at the end of the first quarter didn't cause me any great grief.  Ditto for the score at halftime.  I explained to them that I had confidence in my team, and that as long as we were within a touchdown with the ball in hand and two minutes on the clock, the Steelers have shown that a victory is still firmly within their grasp.

Sadly, this was not the year for us to gain that seventh ring.  People who know that I am a Steeler fan asked if I was upset by the final score.  Of course I was sad.  But not angry.  It was a good game, no bad calls, no really dirty play.  There were mistakes that shouldn't have been made.  But all-in-all, it was the Super Bowl that we all hoped for, only with the wrong final score.

So what is the purpose of this blog?  None, really, I guess.  I just wanted to talk about my Steelers one last time this season.  With a lockout looming on April 1 I wonder if there will be a draft.  Will there be preseason practices for my sister and her son to attend?  Will February of 2012 bring us another Super Bowl, or were those predictions of Armageddon in 2012 accurate, and next winter will bring no football.

I am a member of the Steeler Nation, and I bleed black and gold.

You're not getting older, you're getting....

I'm going grey.

Actually, this is not a news flash.  My first five grey hairs came in overnight about 20 years ago when I was working as a men's dorm supervisor.  An angry student swung at me and the dean chose not to expel him.  But I did get a restraining order which made it almost impossible for the guy to live in the dorm.  (and once again, I have gone off topic before I even finish the first paragraph.)

No, I've been going grey for 20 years now.  But I've been coloring my hair for about, oh, 18 years.  Sometimes I am light brown.  Sometimes I am dark brown.  Reddish.  Auburn.  Caramel.  Mocha.  A touch of burgundy.  And one memorable experiment gone badly awry when it became sort of orange-y.  If I had to tell you my actual hair color, which I do for ID purposes, I say "brown" but I could not pick out the right color to save my life.

But life has been so busy that I haven't been able to find time to re-color it.  And so I have about two inches of grey growing in.  Sadly, it isn't 100% grey, it's about one third grey and the rest is brown.  Enough grey to notice it, but not enough to look cool.

With no time to fix it, I have reverted to my childhood hairstyle:  Pull back the front into two barrettes and call it good.

So my aging hair has caused me to wear it like a child.

I don't mind this hairstyle.  It's easy.  The headset at work doesn't mess it up.  No expensive "product" involved.  And drying and styling time is minimal.

I wonder if this means I have given up, or have come to terms.

By not staying up until oh-dark-thirty in the morning to get it colored, have I made the decision that I don't care how I look, since I am old?  Have I lost interest in the fight against aging?  Against becoming my mother?  Against looking my age?  (how un-American!)

Or have I come to terms with the fact that, although my father blessed me with his genetic makeup which makes me look a good 5 to 8 years younger than I am, I am, indeed, closer to 50 than to 40?  Heck, closer to 50 than to 45!  Am I finally able to embrace the fact that I am not a child, not a teen, not a young woman, but a middle-aged woman?  I have a child who is closer to 30 than to 20 and my mother is in her early 70s.

Is this a sort of mid-life....not "crisis", but perhaps mid-life peace?

It's nice to think that maybe, after warring with myself for my entire life, I am finally accepting who I am.  I'd like to think that this is the answer to why my grey hair is out there for everyone to see.

But I suspect that the real answer is that I am just too busy, and some weekend when we have nothing going on, you'll find me in the bathroom experimenting with the latest color.  Maybe strip it and see how I look with totally white hair.......