tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-39179314591641249512024-03-14T00:52:44.641-07:00Swanny's MusingsThis and ThatSwannyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09541607805857735462noreply@blogger.comBlogger19125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3917931459164124951.post-8428012490763454322014-07-06T21:09:00.002-07:002014-07-06T21:14:15.433-07:00Dear readers,<br />
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I am keeping this blog but I mostly write on my website now.<br />
If you'd like to join me there, please sign up.<br />
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www.ledaasmar.com<br />
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http://ledaasmar.com/category/blog/<br />
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Thanks!<br />
LedaSwannyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09541607805857735462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3917931459164124951.post-27187239034380790582013-03-12T23:14:00.000-07:002013-03-13T21:37:51.282-07:00Auntie Arsha<div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Arsha in her garden</td></tr>
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When I was growing up, my parents didn't send or get too many Christmas cards. Christmas was celebrated personally, people took time to visit each other and exchange their jolly greetings face to face, sip chocolate or mint liqueur and have some Jordan almonds perhaps. I loved to steal a sip of that chocolate liqueur when no one was looking, but that's another story. There used to be a few cards from my parents' relatives and friends overseas, though. One of them stood out for me every year. It always was a postcard with the photo of a family on it, mom, dad and three children at first, then the next year a baby was added to the group. It was from the R----- family of Detroit Michigan. I didn't know these people, but liked to see the children, who were close to my age, grow up from card to card, year to year. I knew the lady was a second cousin once or twice removed, or something like that, of my mom's, also a good friend of hers. Her husband was a minister and my brother's godfather. That's all I knew.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of those Christmas postcards</td></tr>
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Fast forward 11 years. My husband and I spent a year in Houston, then moved to Detroit for him to do a fellowship in his subspecialty. We were young, fearless, and alone. Our families and childhood friends were far away, communication with them very difficult because of a crazy war. We left the new friends we had made in Houston behind, put our belongings in an old Pontiac Lemans and headed out east. We had no plans, spent a night in a roadside motel somewhere in Tennessee or Mississippi, something we later warned our sons never to do. When we arrived in Michigan it was getting dark and pouring rain, we kept driving till we decided we were tired enough and exited at 12 mile road, which turned out to be the very nice city of Royal Oak, just a few miles away from where we live now 37 years later. We found a restaurant and took shelter there to eat and look for a hotel. In those days, they had the old fashioned telephone booths with a phone book secured with a chain. </div>
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Once we had reserved a room in a nearby motel, I relaxed and sat down to enjoy my dinner and suddenly had a flashback. I clearly saw a Christmas postcard with a family photo on it and the words Detroit, Michigan on the back. Sure enough the name was in that phonebook on 12 mile road. I called. A young girl answered and I told her I wasn't sure I was calling the right number.... She didn't give me a chance to continue: Mom! Someone speaking in Armenian! A second later, a sweet voice, I told her who I was and was startled by her scream of joy! RP! Come! It's Marie's daughter. Oh my darling, my sweet girl, you must come right over.... That's how I found my auntie Arsha, and the very next day, we were having cinnamon spiced tea and Armenian cookies in her lovely house. A Christmas postcard from years ago had brought us together.</div>
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How can I describe her? She lived all over the globe, the fate of many Armenians in diaspora. Arsha was born in 1926 In Bitias, but she grew up in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia until something about "that damn Mussolini came over and we had to leave". Her family came to Lebanon next, where she got married and later moved to Detroit with her husband and children. She was in her twenties and she had lived so much life already. She raised a family and worked as a minister's wife / secretary / social coordinator / organist / cook / dishwasher. For free. </div>
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In her early forties, she decided to follow her passion and become an art teacher. She drove one hour each day to the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor to get her teaching degree and started working in Detroit public schools. Those high school kids found out very quickly that this little lady could not be ignored, could not be fooled and suddenly everyone was interested in art. She taught them not just art, but life. There's a big difference between looking and seeing, she would say to them. Everyone just looks at an object, but if you're going to draw it, you have to see its essence, its depth, its relationship with space.... </div>
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She was loved and respected. She was also outspoken. She felt the schools wasted a lot of money on unnecessary things and frugal Arsha spoke her mind.</div>
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I was 21 when I first found her. There was an aura about her that was very peaceful, yet energetic at the same time. I didn't understand what it was till much later. </div>
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Auntie Arsha was an artist, her beautiful drawings and paintings were all over their house and she gifted them to people she loved. I have one hanging in my foyer, a simple drawing of a couple of doves in nature. I never saw my husband and me as couple of doves, but apparently she did. She made flower arrangements for her dining rooms that deserved to be in the top home magazines. She sewed most of her clothes, and once she even made a pair of shoes to match an outfit. She knitted all her sweaters and long coats, and she had matching hats for everything. She didn't just buy a hat and put it on her head, she found a way to embellish it to fit her. Auntie Arsha once watched Oliver Twist for a few minutes, and then took some measurements of her young grandson who had the role of Fagin in the school play. In three days she had the exact replica of Fagin's costume ready for her grandson.</div>
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Then there was her cooking and baking. I'm not going to elaborate on this but if one needed to know how to cook anything, all they had to do is ask her. She had a huge pantry in that mansion, with floor to ceiling shelves and they were lined up with jars and jars of her canned "stuff". Pickled everything, from turnips to swiss chard. Grape jelly, grape juice, grape jam. Tins of cookies she baked for the grandchildren and a freezer full of choreg (Armenian braided bread)... because you never know when you'd need some. </div>
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There were the animals. She loved all animals. She had a dog and three cats had moved in. She adored them, but all animals outside were comfortable with her. They bought a farmhouse in western Michigan and she would drive all the way out there because she missed the neighbor's horses. She was a horse whisperer.</div>
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Auntie Arsha used her art to create her award winning garden. It looked like she had thrown some seeds around and things had grown, but everything made sense, the colors flowed in the most pleasing way, the heights and shapes of the plants were perfect with each other. She allowed what some would call weeds to grow freely, calling them beautiful wildflowers. She beamed with pride and joy as she took guests through the garden. She touched the plants lovingly while smiling as if she knew a secret. I understood, I had the same secret with the plants too. They talked back! Sometimes, they initiated the conversation. Auntie Arsha and I nodded knowingly. </div>
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In those days when my sons were growing up, I used to have monthly lunches for my friends at my home. Auntie Arsha would arrive first, in a beautiful floral skirt, with a sunhat, and a basket full of offerings from her garden, a mixed bunch of everything, flowers, herbs, beans and wild grape leaves. And then there were the ever-giving gifts, the dahlia and iris bulbs, the yarrow roots. These still grow in my garden every year, a living memory of her. She'd ring the doorbell and start singing, it's your morkoorig (small auntie, my nickname for her), open the door. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Siberian Iris in my front yard, from Auntie Arsha</td></tr>
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She was the life of a party too, always kind, always engaging, cheerful, funny and uplifting. </div>
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I had the opportunity to be with her and RP at many gatherings at their home. A group of 10-15 people, young and old, sitting around having a discussion after dinner. I was in awe the first time I attended one of these. Without any prompting, the person who wanted the floor would stand up, and everyone else would yield till she had her say and sat down. An amazing exchange of opinions, often differing, in the most pleasant atmosphere of acceptance and laughter.</div>
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When the company was just family and close friends, they were a very entertaining couple. They would burst into song and RP would start a folk dance of some sorts which Arsha would join, and after a few minutes of giggling like children, they would sit back down.</div>
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Once my parents were here to visit, and we were all gathered at my home with some mutual friends and I don't know what caused this, but suddenly, my parents, Arsha and RP stood up and started singing La Marseillaise, all four of them demonstrating the marching: </div>
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Aux armes, citoyens!</div>
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Formez vos bataillons!<br />
Marchons! Marchons!<br />
Qu'un sang impur<br />
Abreuve nos sillons! </div>
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I didn't stop laughing for days over that, and I still do with the image still clear in my head. To this day I don't know what that was about, but it might have had something to do with the French ships rescuing their people from Musa Dagh, but that's another story. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Musa_Dagh_Resistance. )</div>
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After my father's death, when my mother spent the month of November with me, auntie Arsha used to come over, and the two of them would sit next to each other on the sofa in the family room, knitting and talking for hours like schoolgirls, sometimes giggling, sometimes serious. It was such a pleasure to see my mama with her girlfriend. I treasure those memories. </div>
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Then one day, RP got sick. It started with one cancer and then spread everywhere. When it reached his bones, he was in excruciating pain. Arsha took care of him in every way, fed, him, bathed him, drove him to the doctors and at the end brought him home to die. She literally carried him where she needed to have him until he died. Along with her grief, there was deep faith and an understanding that his time on Earth was over. </div>
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We still met often, at my home or our friend Sonya's. We had brunches and lunches, but I noticed several years ago that auntie Arsha was not the first to arrive anymore. She was always last and sometimes more than an hour late. She would explain it away with, oh I stopped at several places on my way, but it got worse and one day Sonya got a call from a gas station attendant who informed her that there was a little lady there who was lost and had this phone number with her. The gas station was two hours away. Auntie Arsha had forgotten where she was going and stubbornly looked for Sonya's house for two hours getting further and further away. Gradually she was not allowed to drive anymore. </div>
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Then came the phase where she would forget a lot more. We had a period of time when I would call her in the morning and this would joggle her memory about me and for a week afterwards, she would call me several times a day saying the same thing: Sweetheart, darling girl, why don't you ever call? Gradually she forgot things like who my children were, that my mother had died several years before, and then the day came when she didn't recognize her own house and she wondered into the streets looking for her room. Her children had no choice but to put her in a nursing home, they had tried to keep her in her own beloved home as long as possible. It was one of the saddest days, she wouldn't go without her cat, until the nursing home finally allowed visits by the cat. It was difficult thinking about her there, lost and confused, but the hardest day was when I called and she didn't know who I was. She asked me in polite, formal Armenian, but madam, how do you know me? I had thought I would just call and chat with her for an hour even if she didn't remember who I was just to give her an hour of light conversation, but it had progressed to the point where she was getting agitated when she didn't know the callers. So I stopped. I have not spoken to her for the last five years. </div>
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Today we had auntie Arsha's funeral service. Sonya, 87 years old like her friend, and fragile, clung to me as I led her in. We sat together and smiled, laughed and cried together listening to the different stories people told about her. It was a very simple ceremony, with just a few words from a minister and a prayer, but for two hours we all sat there and remembered her. Her grandsons told stories about their childhood memories about their nana, grandmama to the British ones. Her sons remembered her with laughter and tears and read what her daughter in England and 4 grandchildren had written to be read at the service. We had a slide show and watched some home movies, then people just got up and talked about her. Her neighbor who didn't understand why Arsha would be picking the weeds growing up their garage wall until she tasted the delicious sarma, stuffed grape leaves, and was finally convinced those were not weeds. Her colleagues from the art school, members from her church, the neighbor lady who has the horses in the country, friends, and even I found myself up there telling them all about my morkoorig.</div>
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I did not know many of the stories told today but every sentiment about her rang true. The story I delighted in most was from her daughter, Saron. When she was young her mother would take her to the Michigan State fair to participate in the longest ponytail competition. Every year she would come second, beaten by the same set of twins, and her mother would say, oh well, there's always next year. </div>
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Then one day, Saron was shocked when auntie Arsha announced, who cares about a stupid ponytail competition anyway, let's go watch Tom Jones instead, who happened to be playing at the fair. To Saron's delight, her mother screamed and shouted, danced, and sang along to Delilah, What's New Pussycat, and She's a Lady! (There was no panty throwing on stage, however) This made me extremely happy, it was like the last piece of the puzzle to the mystery of auntie Arsha. </div>
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The feeling I had that first day I found her only grew stronger and I came to understand what it was as I grew older. She was always present in the moment, no matter what else she had going on in her life and she had plenty of difficulties. She knew who she was, just a human being like all the rest of us, sharing her time on Earth with the people she came in contact with, always seeing them as part of the whole she belonged to. This allowed her to be exactly who she was, semi eccentric, creative, colorful, joyful, energetic Arsha while maintaining an incredible calm and peacefulness about her, approaching life from a loving, compassionate kindness. </div>
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I love you my morkoorig. You will always be with me. </div>
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Swannyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09541607805857735462noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3917931459164124951.post-50350894045081492582012-12-22T21:04:00.001-08:002012-12-23T20:19:32.698-08:00 My Stand on guns. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Every time I heard of a violent shooting of innocent people, in a school, university, movie theatre or a temple, I was appalled, frozen in disbelief. Not again! What could have happened this time, who was involved, how sad, how awful... I cried for the victims, prayed for their families and felt totally helpless.<br />
But days passed by, the media stopped the coverage, and I went on with my life. The horror of the shootings fading away even though the memory stayed.<br />
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On Friday, December 14th, 2012, I was playing soccer in the yard with adorable, full of life and giggles, two year old Max, when I got a text from a friend informing me she couldn't breathe, another shooting had happened, this time in Connecticut, this time little 6 and 7 year olds. 20 of them! I froze in disbelief again, texting back and forth to get details, until Max, realizing that his soccer partner wasn't playing anymore, ran over with "No more Ding, gramma", referring to the ringtone for texts on my phone. I hugged him tight and tried to hide my tears, but my heart was broken.<br />
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Later, as I watched the innocent little faces of the victims, heard their families tell their stories, my heart bled more and more. Precious little children taken away from their families, taken away from their lives and from us, because someone walked into their school with four weapons and shot them. I thought of the children who survived and the teachers who watched their colleagues die as heroes, how terrifying this must have been for them, will they ever be able to forget the scary image of the man with the gun who killed their schoolmates or teachers who were protecting them? Will the nightmares end or haunt them all their lives, will they need the light on or a parent with them to fall asleep, will they be able to continue school without fear? Will they always look over their shoulder? I should know.<br />
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When I was about 20 years old, I lived in a war torn country. I had just graduated with a BSN from the American University and had started working at the AUH right away. As the war waged on, it became unsafe for us, nurses, to travel to the hospital for our shifts, so they sent an ambulance to collect us and deliver us safely to our units. <br />
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One night, as four of us, all in our nursing uniforms, huddled in the ambulance as it raced through the empty city streets, we were jolted into a sudden stop, the doors flew open and we were looking directly at two M16s pointing at us, with two masked men behind them. I don't remember much about the next minutes except they seemed to last forever and they tasted like pure fear. Identification cards were pulled out, the driver explained where we were going, and somehow after searches and explanations, we were allowed to continue.<br />
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How do I describe that loud beating of my heart even though it seemed to have completely stopped beating? Fear, the worst feeling ever, and the basis for all negative emotions. Fear for one's life. Two months later I was kissing American soil at JFK. I was "home" where I belonged, where that kind of gun nonsense would never happen.... But it happens all the time, over and over, and not by militia, but an ordinary citizen who snaps, who feels rejected, isolated, demonized, and resorts to taking lives along with his own. Not one but as many as he can, armed with military style weapons.<br />
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The AR15 used by Adam Lanza is "the civilian version of the M-16 rifle used by the U.S. military.... like the M-16, ammunition is loaded through a magazine....An AR-15 is usually capable of firing a rate of 45 rounds per minute in semiautomatic mode." <br />
(source: http://www.cnn.com/2012/12/18/us/connecticut-lanza-guns/index.html). <br />
These were military-like guns he used. The question is how and why did he have them. The same old question of every mass murder, asked and forgotten a few days later. <br />
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I kept looking at the faces, the children, the teachers who tried to protect them and felt like a complete coward! These were ours. Our children, our sisters, our mothers, and in a few short weeks, they will be forgotten like all the rest. This was something that could have been avoided, or diminished in scale, if only we had done something after the previous mass shootings. <br />
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But what could I do? How could I prevent it? Why was I feeling like a coward. After all it is a national crisis, the country doesn't agree on the issue, laws have to be changed, restrictions implemented. It has become a political issue instead of a national security issue. Politicians in the palm of special interests, unwilling to put their necks out and act! What could I do? I could take a stand: <br />
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I am against semi-automatic weapons in citizens' hands, I am for strict regulation and restrictions. I have no respect for the opinion of people who follow the NRA blindly on this matter, agree with them on everything without questioning. I have lost respect for people's opinions that put ideology above the safety of children. The same NRA, who stated they will have helpful solutions and on the day the Connecticut victims were still being buried, advocated for more guns, armed guards in schools, to instill more fear in these young children!<br />
I will take a stand. That's all I can do. I wish everyone else would stand by me, but I cannot force them. What I can do however is stop being polite and quiet about this subject, but announce my position from the rooftops, maybe others will too. Some people might say let's think about this stand of hers and see if there's any merit to it. Some will just ignore me, but others will resent me (specially those who don't think I have the same freedom of speech as they do), they'll call me names, block me, unfriend me, unfollow me. Whatever it is they do, as long as they don't come after me with a gun, I'm OK with that.<br />
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This doesn't have to be a matter of political affiliation. One can be ultra conservative in fiscal and social matters, yet see the need for gun control. Many of my republican friends do so. It is in all of our interests, for all our children.<br />
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I just <b>HAVE</b> to take a stand. My soul demands it. This is not about anyone else. This is about me finally standing up for my opinions, my beliefs. This is my right to declare my beliefs.<br />
I realize that this is such a small gesture that it won't make any difference in the big picture, but I will feel honest, brave and not a coward hiding behind political correctness not to lose popularity. I don't need to be popular as much as I need to be honest.<br />
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Gun control is not the only solution for our nation's violent mass shootings. We have a lot of work to do. We do have to look into improving mental health care. But mental health is a vast field. Almost every human being will go through some unhealthy mental state in their lifetime. We cannot medicate the entire country, we cannot institutionalize an entire generation of males. We can do better screenings and follow ups and prescribe medications much more carefully. We can gradually build a plan to help these outcasts who are often dubbed as the devil, when they are victims themselves in a sense. Maybe we need to train therapists just for this, a specialty in helping these young people find a different outlet for their anger and despair, find a way to fit in. We need to put our heads together and brainstorm ideas.<br />
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Then there's the media! Maybe these stories can be covered in such a way that it doesn't give the shooters the appearance of heroes in the eyes of troubled, isolated, disturbed young men. Something to aspire to for them. A place to finally belong, to get their message out that there was no place else for them with us. <br />
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But we can control guns right away! There will be some sold on the black market, people will still be able to get them, but with much more difficulty. If they have to wait a month for a permit, they might get help in the interim. if they have smaller weapons, they might be stopped easier. If they have no weapons, they might seek help. A desperate soul might change his mind if he has to spend some time to find a weapon, but if it's available to him right away, there's not much time to change minds. It might take a few years, but we can do this. What is the purpose of a semi automatic weapon anyway? Do we need 40 rounds in a minute if a burglar is entering our home? It's really a toy of sorts. We regulate toys for children so they don't get hurt, why not regulate toys for adults so they don't hurt others?<br />
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We have to give it a chance. It's a matter of life and death.<br />
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I read somewhere that it's in our constitution; the right to bear arms; that this was written by the wise founders so our country doesn't become a dictatorship, so people could revolt and have a civil war, I suppose. My answer to this is those founders were protecting something valid in their time but not in ours. If they knew what was happening under the shield of the second amendment today, they would be against it, because this is not protecting our country, this is killing our people.<br />
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There is no fear in 2012 that the US will become a dictatorship, we have campaigns, debates and elections. We just went through one actually. If we reach a point where we have to resolve our differences with M16s, we're already doomed. This will not happen. Besides, the founders had no idea how advanced the weapons will become, or they might have put restrictions themselves.,<br />
What we need is common sense & rethinking our positions for ourselves instead of following NRA's stubborn ideology. We can do better than the NRA.<br />
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Stating my opinion and stand on this matter does not "bully" anyone. It's a general statement to the world. Labeling someone as a "bully" over and over again, is bullying however, trying to intimidate them and shut them up. As far as intolerance, intolerance for my opinion is much worse than intolerance for guns. My opinion doesn't kill anyone.<br />
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A few days ago, Kris Allen dedicated this song to Sandy Hook elementary school shooting victims. It is beautiful and poignant.<br />
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For :<br />
Charlotte Bacon, 6<br />
Daniel Barden, 7<br />
Rachel D'Avino, 29<br />
Olivia Engel, 6<br />
Josephine Gay, 7<br />
Ana Marquez-Greene, 6<br />
Dylan Hockley, 6<br />
Dawn Hochsprung, 47<br />
Madeleine Hsu, 6<br />
Catherine Hubbard, 6<br />
Chase Kowalski, 7<br />
Jesse Lewis, 6<br />
James Mattioli, 6<br />
Grace McDonnell, 7<br />
Anne marie Murphy, 52<br />
Emilie Parker, 6<br />
Jack Pinto, 6<br />
Noah Pozner, 6<br />
Caroline Previdi, 6<br />
Jessica Rekos, 6<br />
Avielle Richman, 6<br />
Lauren Rousseau, 30<br />
Mary Sherlach, 56<br />
Victoria Soto, 27<br />
Benjamin Wheeler, 6<br />
Allison Wyatt, 6<br />
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<br />Swannyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09541607805857735462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3917931459164124951.post-48537839730097387382012-07-02T16:27:00.000-07:002012-07-02T17:13:11.768-07:00Anderson Cooper<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I haven't done an op-ed in a while, so here goes.<br />
<br />
for all the comments I've seen and heard, on twitter, Facebook, Whole Foods and the Target parking lot -<br />
<br />
It's not about whether you knew or didn't know that he was gay. In fact, it's not about you at all. Whether you were surprised or not is not relevant. It is about Anderson, his life, his words, his choices and his courage. Not you or me!<br />
<br />
It is about a decent man who wanted to keep his privacy for personal reasons in an un-accepting, judgmental world. it is also about a journalist who wanted to keep his privacy for safety reasons, professional reasons, in order to be able to do his job as well as he does.<br />
<br />
But now he has chosen to stand up and be visible for the good that might do in the community, maybe save some young people from despairing about something that is not a choice, a sin or a character flaw.<br />
<br />
Maybe by doing so, one day it truly will become nobody's business and people won't be smug about knowing something no one else knew.Swannyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09541607805857735462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3917931459164124951.post-43004365044831666922012-04-21T20:19:00.002-07:002012-04-21T20:39:49.341-07:00The photographIt's an ordinary photograph of an ordinary family. Mother and son, father standing behind them protectively. They all have big beautiful smiles and seem to be very happy. It's a happy occasion and I see real joy on their faces. <br />
<br />
I keep staring at it. After a while I close the window on my computer but soon, I go looking for it again and stare some more. The wave of emotions I feel makes me catch my breath every single time. To recover, I check all the details around them. Black linoleum on the floor; sleek countertops with employees at computers; at the customer window on the left, a forlorn looking gentleman with a backwards baseball cap on his head, sitting in a wheelchair staring into space. The young man standing at the window is putting something in his backpack; his jeans are too long and he has folded the hems over, 3 white stripes on his black shoes.The bulletin board has only one white paper pinned on it and there's a red fire extinguisher on the wall. A square, yellow, plastic box holding some pens on the counter doesn't seem to fit in the whole and makes me think of children's crayons for some reason.<br />
<br />
All through my observations, my gaze comes back to the family. My eyes tear up, yet I can't help smiling too. I have not met them yet I feel I know them and feel great love towards them. The woman's face glows with joy, her beautiful blue eyes are smiling even more than her mouth. The little boy leaning towards his mother has the sweetest face...I reach to stroke his cheek that has a hint of a dimple on it. I look up at the man behind them and new tears fill my eyes. He smiles yet I see in his eyes what his wife hides so well. There's sadness and worry there along with the joy.<br />
<br />
I want to carry them. My heart grows wings and flies into the picture and lifts them up in protective embrace. I want to tell them everything will be all right but I don't know if they'll believe me. This is no ordinary family. This is my friend's sister and her family. The mother has been fighting brain cancer for 2 years now and has suffered through so much with that disease. The devoted father has stood by his wife, looked after her, carried her... They continue to fight. The photograph is snapshot of a moment in their lives when they lived for that moment, for the son, for the great happiness he brings them and they bring him. Cancer be damned, they will live this moment and enjoy it.<br />
<br />
My mind goes silent for a minute. I feel a strange connection with them, as if they can sense me, hear me through this photograph. I speak no words but feel my message reach them: I'm here, I see you, I care, I love you.<br />
<br />
I save the photograph to look at it again tomorrow.<br />
<br />Swannyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09541607805857735462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3917931459164124951.post-53959739628080812162012-03-01T14:10:00.002-08:002012-03-01T14:10:12.922-08:00<br />
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Why do you cry</span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">why are you crying, he asks</span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">because it’s too much</span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">what’s too much?</span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">the love</span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">whose love is it?</span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">mine and everyone’s</span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">how can love be too much?</span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">it fills up the space and floods</span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">what space is that</span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">the vastness inside</span></div>
<div>
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span></div>Swannyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09541607805857735462noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3917931459164124951.post-39371044406123976122012-01-18T00:26:00.000-08:002012-01-18T00:31:09.146-08:00Heartbroken<br />
<br />
<br />
He's heartbroken. He knew it was inevitable yet he's heartbroken.<br />
He had eight months with her. They had wonderful times, learned from each other, supported each other but also realized they had different paths in life. It was not meant to be. No one was wrong, there just was one huge boulder between them that they couldn't move around. She was stronger so she broke the bond.<br />
<br />
He tells me he cannot talk now and I understand. He lashes out that he will bury his sorrows in drink, I ask if he has to work tomorrow. He doesn't even remember the words they spoke, but says it was sad and that they both cried. I watch the pain in his words on the tiny screen of my phone and I cry too. <br />
<br />
I will be alone forever, he says, before he enters his silence.<br />
<br />
<br />
How can I help him? How can I reach him? Let me be a sponge and absorb his pain; let me turn the clock back and challenge fate; let me move boulders, fix all the problems; let me hold my son.<br />
<br />
You loved and you lost, hokiss. You will mourn a while. You will see her face in coffee shops and hear her voice in your dreams. Then a day will come when you will be better, you will be stronger and you'll laugh again. All this that happened was meant to happen to prepare you for what's coming up next. You will feel grateful for having her as long as you did, for the lessons she taught you, for the way she made you explore your feelings, stretch your boundaries, learn your own limits of how much you can bend, learn about yourself, learn how to heal your wounds. You will think of her fondly and hope you have also given her what you were meant to give.<br />
<br />
You will not be alone forever, my son. Your big heart is too full of love to hold by itself, it will spill over. You will meet someone who will share her heart to hold all the love. <br />
<br />
But for now I'll be here for you, I will cry with you until this storm passes too.<br />
<br />
<br />Swannyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09541607805857735462noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3917931459164124951.post-42811134222269798072011-09-02T19:45:00.000-07:002011-09-03T20:13:32.332-07:00Hollow Reed ~ From: Tales by my sons' mom<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Arial Rounded MT Bold';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-family: 'Arial Rounded MT Bold';">"My body is like a hollow reed. Troubles blow through me like the wind".™Balki Bartokomous </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-family: 'Arial Rounded MT Bold';"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-family: 'Arial Rounded MT Bold';">Growing up, my sons were not big TV watchers, but every now and then we enjoyed a sitcom together. Perfect Strangers was one of these shows that we laughed about long after it was over, even now more than a decade later. Balki Bartokomous had hilarious catchphrases that we repeated to make a point or just randomly.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-family: 'Arial Rounded MT Bold';"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-family: 'Arial Rounded MT Bold';">The boys played many different sports but settled on tennis in high school. They were on the JV and varsity teams and played against different high schools in the area. I, of course, was at every single one of these matches. They were after school and often ended close to dinner time. I had the family's dinner cooked, my hat and sunglasses on and ready to cheer. I volunteered to drive, bring bagels and juice, or whatever else was needed. I enjoyed chatting with the other parents too, and naturally I wanted my boys to win! </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-family: 'Arial Rounded MT Bold';"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-family: 'Arial Rounded MT Bold';">There was a problem, however. Tennis is not a "cheerleading" sport. Tennis spectators sit or stand politely, don't make a sound and every now and then do a little "royal" clapping. This was not football. Parents did not coach from the sidelines, did not fight, just waved perhaps once or twice. This was going to be very difficult for me. Sure enough, trouble was ahead.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-family: 'Arial Rounded MT Bold';"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Arial Rounded MT Bold';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;">The match was at our high school that afternoon, behind my backyard, right past the baseball field. I was late getting there and found Mike struggling a bit in his game. Being my son's mother, I knew he was losing focus because he was behind. I waited for that comeback but it wasn't happening. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Arial Rounded MT Bold';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Arial Rounded MT Bold';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;">It started with guilt. I should not have been late! I was sure he would not have fallen behind if his mother was there from the start. Then motherly responsibility set in. I had to do something. I had to find a way to get Mike's attention and tell him to relax and focus. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-family: 'Arial Rounded MT Bold';"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-family: 'Arial Rounded MT Bold';">I walked around the court to his side, but now he couldn't see me and I wasn't supposed to speak. I walked back to the other side, facing him, waved gently; that didn't work; then I waved a little more frantically. Mike looked at me, I winked and mouthed words like, you have to relax hokiss, just breathe, focus, you can do this, you have this next one. He winked back and looked away. Obviously, he wasn't good at lipreading. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-family: 'Arial Rounded MT Bold';"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Arial Rounded MT Bold';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;">The need to reassure, support and encourage him was just too much, it was like a pressure cooker inside me. I thought if I used a cryptic message, others wouldn't understand and I could get away with it. At worst, they'd think I've lost my mind. So I started softly at first: I'm a hollow reed. I'm a hollow reed. I'm a hollow reed. I had no success with that. Mike just could not hear me. I raised my voice gradually. Hollow Reed. Hollow Reed. It was shorter, more to the point. This time some people looked, the opponent looked. If Mike heard me, he pretended he didn't know me. This was not working. I had no choice at all. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Arial Rounded MT Bold';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Arial Rounded MT Bold';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;">HOLLOW REED! HOLLOW REED! HOLLOW REED!</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Arial Rounded MT Bold';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Arial Rounded MT Bold';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;">Then I walked around to a new spot, with the strategy to confuse people as to where these words were coming from. I was getting ready to repeat it when</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-family: 'Arial Rounded MT Bold';"> I felt someone tapping my shoulder. It was Mike's coach. He said, "Mike says maybe you should go home now" and he left. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-family: 'Arial Rounded MT Bold';"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-family: 'Arial Rounded MT Bold';">And so I walked home. I don't remember if Mike was upset with me or not, but I do remember that he won that match and I take full credit for it.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-family: 'Arial Rounded MT Bold';"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-family: 'Arial Rounded MT Bold';"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-family: 'Arial Rounded MT Bold';">*This is a true story. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Arial Rounded MT Bold';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><br />
</span></span>Swannyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09541607805857735462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3917931459164124951.post-64124186018442567302011-08-21T12:44:00.000-07:002012-01-17T22:55:03.444-08:00The Crochet Runner<div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: url(http://assets.tumblr.com/images/input_bg.gif); background-origin: initial; background-position: 50% 0%; background-repeat: repeat no-repeat; color: black; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; font-weight: normal; line-height: 1.4; margin-bottom: 8px; margin-left: 12px; margin-right: 12px; margin-top: 8px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GYktbFELe4U/TlFf5FQ7K5I/AAAAAAAAACw/gPc7zGoPdZw/s1600/IMG_1020.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="119" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GYktbFELe4U/TlFf5FQ7K5I/AAAAAAAAACw/gPc7zGoPdZw/s320/IMG_1020.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
War was raging back home and communication with my family was difficult and sporadic. I missed my mother terribly even though I was happy here. In one of my letters, I asked her to make me one of her beautiful crochet pieces. I wanted to put it on my foyer table to remind me of her and make my apartment feel more like home. I measured the table and told her to make it 8x12.<br />
<br />
A few months later, a package arrived from home with my runner in it. I stood there looking at it, confused why mom would send me this. What was it? Then I saw the note ~ " It boggled my mind why you would ask for something like this. What could you possibly use it for? Your father, sisters and I cannot think of anything. But here it is, hokiss, I tried my best to fit as much of the design in as I could. I hope you like it and you use it in health."<br />
<br />
I laughed. It sits pretty in a small rectangular plate on my dressing table now and makes me smile each time I look at it. I had forgotten that measurements were in centimeters back home, not inches. So instead of a 8x12 inch runner, I had gotten a 8x12 cm one. </div>Swannyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09541607805857735462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3917931459164124951.post-31824882930383509002011-08-17T14:03:00.000-07:002011-08-17T14:03:51.721-07:00Birthday Lunch<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px;"></span><br />
<div class="autopagerize_page_element" id="posts" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 4.5em; width: 32em;"><div class="post" style="margin-bottom: 2.25em; padding-bottom: 2.25em; position: relative;"><div class="text"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--C-wg_Lv3rk/TkwsrWDW_VI/AAAAAAAAACs/Z3vBhEBmCgA/s1600/DSC00742.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--C-wg_Lv3rk/TkwsrWDW_VI/AAAAAAAAACs/Z3vBhEBmCgA/s320/DSC00742.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><h3 style="color: #111111; font-size: 1.5em; font-weight: normal; line-height: 1; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><br />
</h3><div class="text-body"><div style="margin-bottom: 1.5em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">The 6 friends sat around a table in a quiet corner of the restaurant. They talked about the usual stuff; what they’d done this month, their husbands, the children and their new/old girl friends or boy friends, how late the service was and how delicious lunch was when they finally got it. They laughed a lot and gave each other advice on everything from getting rid of japanese beetles to vacation spots.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 1.5em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Marilyn opened her cards and they passed them around, proud of having found the funniest one or the most fitting one. They divided the bill by 5 and paid wishing their friend a happy birthday again. Once everyone had used the restroom and they were all sitting around the table again, Marilyn spoke with no pause between the sentences. “I have something to tell you but please nobody freak out I have breast cancer and the surgery is tomorrow”</div><div style="margin-bottom: 1.5em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">For a second or two nobody spoke, then they all started together. What, where, how, who, how long, how far, how much, shall we come, what next. Then when they got their answers, We’ll be here, what can we do, we’ll be praying, we’ll support, we’ll make you laugh, take DC cd with you (guess who said that), we love you. Then they all laughed about the new boobs Marilyn would be sporting at their next luncheon. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 1.5em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">In the parking lot, they hugged some more, talked some more, and then each one got into her car and shed a tear.. or two.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 1.5em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Marilyn’s surgery is tomorrow morning at 9 am. I’ll be saying a prayer. How about you?</div></div></div></div></div><div id="pagination" style="margin-bottom: 1.5em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 3em; width: 32em;"><a href="http://yoswanny.tumblr.com/post/3530131523" style="color: #c00906; margin-right: 1.5em; text-decoration: none;">← Previous post</a></div><div id="footer" style="border-top-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); border-top-style: solid; border-top-width: 1px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 3em; padding-bottom: 0.75em; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0.75em; width: 44em;"><div id="search" style="float: right;"><form action="http://yoswanny.tumblr.com/search" form="" id="searchbox" method="get"><input id="keywords" name="q" style="border-bottom-color: rgb(119, 119, 119); border-bottom-style: solid; border-bottom-width: 1px; border-left-color: rgb(119, 119, 119); border-left-style: solid; border-left-width: 1px; border-right-color: rgb(119, 119, 119); border-right-style: solid; border-right-width: 1px; border-top-color: rgb(119, 119, 119); border-top-style: solid; border-top-width: 1px; padding-bottom: 0.25em; padding-left: 0.25em; padding-right: 0.25em; padding-top: 0.25em;" type="text" value="" /> <input id="submit" type="submit" value="Search" /><br />
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They told me the moon would be special today</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">They said it would surely grant me a wish</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">But pick what you ask for carefully</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Don't waste it on something foolish</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I went outside looking for the moon</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">It was not in its usual spot</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I went around, strained my neck to find it, without any luck</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Panic struck me. What if I miss it? What about my wish?</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I ran between the houses, past the trees to more open spaces</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">But the moon was nowhere to be found</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I got in my car and drove East</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Towards the spot where I usually see it</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">But it was no use, it wasn't meant to be</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">The moon didn't want me to find it, </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">My wish will have to wait, I thought</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Maybe eighteen more years or so </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">For the moon to be this close, this willing to grant it.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Then what should I see when I got back home?</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">But the moon peeking behind the trees</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I ran out past houses and fences</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Hello moon, I cried, can you see me?</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">It was so big, so close I thought I could touch it</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">It was friendly, smiling back at me </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">So I made my wish carefully</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Then I asked it to promise not to forget me</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I ran after the moon today</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">And I caught it finally.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
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</div>Swannyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09541607805857735462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3917931459164124951.post-8965493434400842722011-01-24T16:19:00.000-08:002011-01-26T10:30:15.183-08:00He Is My Brother<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">He is the CEO of his own company<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">a respected businessman, a mover, a shaker<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">Familiar with airports all over the world, </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 16pt;">A problem solver, a forward thinker.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 16pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 21px;">But more than all of that, he is my brother.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">Do you remember how we made our own game of chess?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">A cardboard carefully lined into equal squares<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">Horses and castles drawn on pieces of paper we cut<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">Queens and kings and bishops in black and in white </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">He is a consultant to kings and princes,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">An expert witness to give congress fright</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 16pt;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 21px;">Magazine covers graced by his handsome face</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 21px;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 21px;">Evening news reporters in awe of his insight</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16pt;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 16pt;">But more than all of that, he is my brother.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">Do you remember how we made a phone?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">With paper cups and a piece of string pulled tight<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">We ran it across from your bed to mine<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">And what was it that we talked about all night?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">He is a writer, a poet renowned<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">A weaver of words in our mother tongue</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">He speaks of the land, the mountains and trees</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 21px;">The beauty of his words brings a flow of tears</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 21px;">I read each poem a thousand and one times</span></div></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">and then I read them again to sway with the rhymes</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 21px;">Because you know more than anything, he is my brother.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">Do you remember playing in the streets?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">Hiding in our rooms, at times happy and at times sad<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">All that we endured, all that made us strong<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">Do you remember the good days and the bad?<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 16pt;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 16pt;">A global citizen, he</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 21px;"> comes and he goes</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 21px;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 21px;">To schools and libraries, he lends a helping hand</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 21px;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 21px;">He builds up villages and cultivates the land</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 21px;">By just his presence, softens peoples' woes</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 21px;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 21px;">Why does my heart swell with pride and with love</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">Because as you know quite well by now</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 16pt;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 21px;">More than anything, he is my brother.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Swannyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09541607805857735462noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3917931459164124951.post-6091365990190927342011-01-22T19:42:00.000-08:002011-01-22T20:05:14.152-08:00Only To The Next Tree<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Ix-zr6RNvmo/TTumRZmM4SI/AAAAAAAAABs/LkfZxNZPoeY/s1600/slide_3007_42547_large.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="290" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Ix-zr6RNvmo/TTumRZmM4SI/AAAAAAAAABs/LkfZxNZPoeY/s400/slide_3007_42547_large.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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<br />
In the summers we went to the village where the streets, not only in song, but literally had no name. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I loved the village. The sky was bigger, the stars were brighter, and the air less stuffy and hot than the city. In the evenings, when we went for a walk up and down the main street, we needed a light sweater which we draped over our shoulders. I had cousins who lived there year round, who would be waiting for us to arrive after nine months of separation and the reunions were always fun. One of my cousins told me recently that she used to go wait in front of our house just in case we came that day.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Many of the village families owned fruit orchards, mainly apples, but plums, apricots, berries and some vineyards too. My great aunt liked to take me along with her to pick the best table grapes for family dinners. Her long white hair braided into a bun and covered with a scarf, she'd put on her boots, grab a basket and we'd walk the 20 minutes to the vineyard. She was a different person there among her other family. She walked slowly, touching her precious vines, cutting off branches she found useless, cradling a bunch of grapes in her palm as if to judge their sweetness by their weight. She'd teach me their names and what foods they went with best. These are called "bride's fingers", she'd say putting a bunch of 2 inch long, golden grapes in her basket. They were my favorites. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">One of the highlights of the summer for me was apple picking. It was a well planned and organized event. The timing had to be coordinated with relatives and neighbors so they could help each other. Everyone went. All the ladders available were taken and all capable hands put to work. There was lots of playful banter and singing from the top of the trees. Young people fell in love in those orchards and the uncles made fun of them, singing "I lost my heart under the apple tree". The older ladies were responsible for the food and all kinds of delicacies were spread out for lunch. We ate and then took a siesta in the shade of the trees before we continued to pick those apples ever so carefully, not to leave fingerprints on them, and arrange them gently in wooden crates.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">The crates were loaded on small trucks that went around to all the apple pickers that day and helped carry their harvest to huge trucks waiting up the dirt road. Some of the men would get impatient and start carrying the crates themselves maybe to show off their strong muscles to the ladies. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">One day, I decided I was strong enough to help but mostly I wanted to follow cousin Jack around; at 15, he was 4 years older than me and way too cool. So I lifted a crate, thought it was light enough, I could do this, and followed the men. At first, I showed determination and courage, but after several minutes, that narrow dirt path got longer and longer. Angry red marks burned on my arms, my knees wobbled and some moisture appeared in my eyes. Cousin Jack turned around and looked at me dragging behind and waited. When I got to him, he suggested I wait right there, he would sprint to the truck, drop his crate off and come back for mine. But I was too embarrassed, the men would laugh at me on their way back and that's when he said it: See that next tree ahead of us? We'll just walk to that tree. Don't look at the truck, only at that next tree. So we walked together and when we reached that tree, Jack and I walked to the next one, and just like that, one tree at a time, we conquered that dirt path. I loved my cousin Jack.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I never forgot that. Many times over the years, a voice in my head whispered, only to the next tree, darling. I told the story to my growing sons enough times that they would say, yes mom, we know, only to the next tree. Funny thing is I saw cousin Jack at a wedding a few months ago and he had no recollection of it. He thanked me for the story though and said it will come in handy for him too on days he struggles with the dirt paths in this life.<br />
<br />
<br />
* The photo is not mine. I found it on the internet. Don't know whom to give credit.</div>Swannyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09541607805857735462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3917931459164124951.post-51422432384384192622011-01-15T20:50:00.000-08:002011-01-15T21:11:24.871-08:00How I got my faith in humanity (or maybe just Macy's) back<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Ix-zr6RNvmo/TTJ9dAWEotI/AAAAAAAAABo/L0TVWRe6Vs0/s1600/%2521B9-eMw%2521Wk%257E%2524%2528KGrHqMOKnQEy1%2521dw1q8BM7YQwWhkQ%257E%257E0_1_4436_1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Ix-zr6RNvmo/TTJ9dAWEotI/AAAAAAAAABo/L0TVWRe6Vs0/s400/%2521B9-eMw%2521Wk%257E%2524%2528KGrHqMOKnQEy1%2521dw1q8BM7YQwWhkQ%257E%257E0_1_4436_1.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><br />
<br />
The other day the husband informed me that he had no pants to wear. Now this would have been just a common, matter of fact statement if he had not used "the tone" with it. You know, the tone that tells you that the rain, snow, and even the floods all over the planet are your fault. That kind of tone. Also, the traffic, the neighbor's dog barking, the dry bread rolls at California Pizza, the drunk dude that approached us in the park - my fault. While I'm at it, I might as well take responsibility for the problems in the Middle East and elsewhere. Anyway, you get the idea.<br />
<br />
I thought of teaching him a lesson and ignoring his hidden plea for help, but I worried that the poor man might die of hypothermia without his corduroys. So off to the local Macy's I went. I found the desired pants, but not in his size. After a 20 minute wait for my turn, the saleslady checked her computer and confirmed that unfortunately the store did not have what I needed. Being an experienced shopper, I asked if she could check if other stores in the area had them. She was not too happy but obliged. Good news, there were several stores in New York, Chicago, Minnesota and Washington DC which still were not sold out of the olive green and black ones, she announced. That's great! I rejoiced, could you call and order a few for me? She looked at me as if I had asked her to fly to Mars for corduroy pants. This was something every sales clerk had offered me in the past; after all, they want to sell the merchandise, don't they? All I can do is print out a list of the stores and you can call them yourself, she offered. As I walked away with the list in my hand, she added, and you'll have to pay shipping! Thank you for your help, I said with that tone of sarcasm I use with the husband to counteract his accusatory one, you know the one.<br />
<br />
Back home, I chose the one store I was quite familiar with, Herald Square Macy's in New York City. I knew what was going to happen next, so I made myself coffee, got some cookies, Harry Potter book 5, sat in my favorite chair, put my feet up and called the number. I was good at this game. Only five rings and a human voice.<br />
-Welcome to Herald Square Macy's. For store hours and location, press 1; for credit card inquiries, press 2; for in-store departments, press 3....<br />
~3!<br />
- For cosmetics, press 1; for accessories, press 2; for children's clothes, press 3; for women, press 4; for men, press 5...<br />
~ 5!<br />
- For hosiery, press 1; for ties press 2; for suits, press 3; for brand names press 4....<br />
~4!<br />
-For Polo, press1...<br />
~1!<br />
<br />
The phone rang for at least 20 rings. You might as well pick it up, I said, because I'm not hanging up. Finally a young female voice, Macy's polo, may I help you? <br />
I started telling her what I needed. Pleated or flat front? Pleated, he's from the previous century. Colors, size, how many. And then, Can you hold a minute?<br />
<br />
Sure I can hold. Sip of coffee, bite of cookie, Oh my God! Mrs. Figg is a Squib? And dementors on Harry's street? <br />
<br />
Hello? Yes I found them, but have to put you on hold again because I have a customer waiting.<br />
Sure, I'll be here.<br />
<br />
Owls, owls, owls. Owls everywhere!<br />
<br />
Hello? Name, address, telephone and credit card information. Can you hold please? Repeat your address please? Can you hold again please, I'm sorry.<br />
Sure, I'll be here. <br />
Hello? I'm sorry but it's not accepting the zip code.<br />
Oh, no 2 at the end, just 5 numbers, not 6.<br />
Ok, can you hold please? Hello? Oh no, I just hung up on this other lady and there are 2 people waiting here, I'm sorry, can you repeat the phone number please? Voice is getting a bit distressed now.<br />
What's you name?<br />
Lynn. <br />
Listen Lynn, don't worry, you're doing an incredible job all by yourself there.<br />
Yes, I'm alone here.<br />
Listen, My husband doesn't have any pants, and he's very cold, and it's his birthday (I thought I'll throw that in for good measure), I'm willing to wait; it's better than flying to New York, because Michigan is out of corduroy pants. So do what you have to do there and get back to me. Just don't drop my call, Lynn, ok?<br />
Ok. Please hold.<br />
<br />
Coffee and cookies are gone by now, but Harry's having a nervous breakdown for being kept in the dark for so long.<br />
<br />
Hello? Ok credit card information. The pants are 40% off..<br />
Really?<br />
Will you be using Macy's card? You get another 15% off if you do.<br />
Really.<br />
No shipping because Michigan is out of them.<br />
Really! Wow, Lynn, we're doing extremely well here. <br />
So you'll get these by Tuesday. I hope your husband has a happy birthday.<br />
Thank you Lynn. Thank you for being so nice and patient. You are a super saleslady.<br />
Thank you Mrs A. Sorry for putting you on hold so much.<br />
<br />
Mission accomplished. As a bonus, faith in humanity restored.<br />
<br />
Total time: 1 hour, 25 minutes.<br />
Number of holds: 126<br />
Total savings: 40% + 15% + no shipping<br />
Coffee: 1 huge mug<br />
Cookies: 3 small ish.<br />
Chapters read: 4<br />
Surprising husband with pants on Tuesday: priceless!<br />
<br />
This effort is dedicated to Lynn, superior saleslady at men's Polo department at Herald Square Macy's, New York, NYSwannyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09541607805857735462noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3917931459164124951.post-55556846415731460102011-01-07T08:42:00.000-08:002011-01-07T13:26:00.817-08:00Why do I like the "homeless to job offers" story<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/6rPFvLUWkzs?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br />
<br />
There was a man named Ted Williams who had a golden speaking voice. He got into drugs and alcohol; he fell upon hard times and became homeless. Then one day he was discovered for his voice and offered many jobs. He got a haircut and new clothes and was reunited with his mother.<br />
National and international news covered his story. You tubes popped up and went viral. People tweeted and re-tweeted about him. Humanity rejoiced for him and his luck and newfound success. <br />
<br />
But then came the analysis. Tweets, blogs and opinions emerged. Was he the only man on the planet who had a golden speaking voice? For God's sake we don't even know if he can sing and obviously he doesn't even shave. Besides, it's not like he has a talent that will cure cancer or clean the oil spills. How many other homeless people, maybe even more talented than Ted, are still in the streets? Don't they deserve a second chance? It's not like all of a sudden the economic situation was reversed because one man found a job. We're still in dire times, people. And what does this say about human compassion? How many people passed this guy by without offering a hand? How many of us pass by homeless people sitting in the corners of buildings, sour our faces at their filthy, disgusting appearances, turn our heads and speed by? Now that this man is out of those conditions, it's fine for us to show compassion and be moved by this heartwarming story? And so on .... the voices expressed their opinions.<br />
<br />
I ask myself why do I find this story heartwarming? Am I naive or worse, a hypocrite? <br />
<br />
The man was down and out. He could have stayed there for the rest of his miserable life. But something shifted, he transcended his lot. He was not discovered lying in his tent drinking beer, reciting radio commercials. No, he made a sign and stood on busy roadsides trying to get attention. Once he had overcome his addictions, he wanted better and worked for it the only way he knew how. He took the first step and hoped for the best. I like that.<br />
<br />
Somehow, everything aligned that he was noticed, he was picked up, his voice made it on you tubes and news outlets and job offers came his way. In this digital age, word gets out faster and spreads further and this is an example of how it can be beneficial on such a small, one person level. I am sure some of the coverage was for increasing viewership purposes, but still, it helped Ted. It's good to see something other than what celebrity is in drug rehab get this kind of attention. I like that.<br />
<br />
What I like most is the sense of hope in this story. It happened for Ted. First, he woke up and made a sign, then her got lucky. It can happen to others too even if it is one at a time.<br />
<br />
Ted not only had lost his job, succumbed to drugs and become homeless, but he also had deserted his wife and children. "Maybe Williams can redeem himself personally as well as professionally. Maybe he can be there for his grandchildren in ways he could not for his kids."*<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
</span><br />
Now we don't know what will happen of 53 year old Ted. His 90 year old mother has asked him not to disappoint her by going with the wrong crowd and getting in trouble. I say better late than never. Take her advice, Ted, and don't waste your second chance. <br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">* Read more: </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"><a href="http://www.nydailynews.com/news/national/2011/01/07/2011-01-07_behind_goldenvoiced_ted_williams_is_exwife_patricia_kirtley_the_real_hero_of_the.html#ixzz1AO1ItO88" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; color: #003399; font-family: inherit; font-size: 12px; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">http://www.nydailynews.com/news/national/2011/01/07/2011-01-07_behind_goldenvoiced_ted_williams_is_exwife_patricia_kirtley_the_real_hero_of_the.html#ixzz1AO1ItO88</a></span>Swannyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09541607805857735462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3917931459164124951.post-61380427459254477842011-01-06T23:10:00.000-08:002011-01-07T06:41:22.657-08:00The shoes: True Story<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Ix-zr6RNvmo/TSauAB89GHI/AAAAAAAAABc/ddDv0QH6gJ0/s1600/th_m_vs_w_016-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Ix-zr6RNvmo/TSauAB89GHI/AAAAAAAAABc/ddDv0QH6gJ0/s400/th_m_vs_w_016-1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Really? </td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">A few years ago, our son Michael and his close friend Micah decided to invite their two families to meet each other over dinner. It was Parents' Weekend at Stanford University and we had spent the entire day taking classes specially presented to us parents. It was a very exciting day; we learned about sleep disorders, solar systems and how they measure distances between stars, dolphin language, and biochemical principles or something like that. It was great fun pretending to be college students again but a few hours after class I had forgotten most of the lectures, except maybe the sleep disorders one. That had the most practical value for me at my age and I even bought the professor's book and had him autograph it. </span><br />
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</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">In the evening we all met in a downtown Palo Alto restaurant for a family style Chinese dinner. Micah's family was very nice; they had two sons the same ages as ours, they had sent both of them to Stanford just like us and soon the eight of us were laughing and sharing food and drink like we had known each other for years. We ate and drank tea, talked, laughed, ate more and drank more tea and all of a sudden it was time to leave. </span><br />
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</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">As we got up and said our goodbyes, I realized I'd better use the restroom, I asked them to wait for me at the entrance and rushed to the dark hallway where I was told the restrooms were. By this time my need was urgent and the restroom signs were not the normal, clear, Men and Women signs. They were some sort of indistinguishable, androgynous looking abstract pictures which I'm sure might have had some entertaining value if one was just lingering by the doors, or even could make a good Jeopardy question. But quite faded, in the dark and in my urgent state they were of absolutely no use to me.</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I thought for a minute. Logically, the ladies restroom should come first because ladies need it more and usually it's more of an emergency. Besides, there was more room in the front for a longer line, whereas the second one was crammed against the back wall. So of course, the first door had to be the ladies room.</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I walked in and right in front of me saw a stall with the door half open and ran to it, closed the door and sat on the toilet. Ah.... relief. Halfway through I had a sudden thought and stopped abruptly. Why were there three sinks in this restroom but only one stall? I was sure I had seen two people washing their hands and a third unoccupied sink. Hmm. Were those people washing their hands men or women? Were they washing their hands? My face flushed and my heart skipped a beat as gradually realization sank in that maybe, perhaps, there might be a small possibility that those were not sinks. I still was not totally sure. After all, I had convinced myself the ladies room should be first in the hallway. </span><br />
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</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I rolled my eyes looking around the stall, barely breathing. The toilet was unusually high for a woman, wasn't it? My feet were touching the floor but barely. Then I noticed the door. It didn't reach all the way down to the floor or all the way up to the ceiling. It looked more like a saloon swinging door in a Western movie, except it wasn't swinging. I carefully bent down and peeked from under the door looking towards where the sinks were. I saw two pairs of shoes standing there. Oh for heaven's sake, those were men's shoes!</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">What to do, what to do? First, don't panic. The boys were outside and they'd come looking for me soon. I hope they don't find me dead, or even worse, molested! Wait, if I can see their shoes under the door, they'll be able to see my high heels! So I bent my knees and lifted my feet high off the floor. Now I was safe, I could think. Maybe when I hear water running outside, I'll finish what I had come in here for, and then get ready to run for my life as soon as the shoes walk out. But what if new shoes walk in?</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Sure enough, new shoes kept walking in. Fancy shoes, sport shoes, flip flops, black shoes, brown shoes, even white shoes. Not in February, man; dark flip flops were ok, but not white shoes. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I waited for what it seemed like an eternity or maybe seven minutes. The boys will start getting worried, I thought, it's a bit quiet now, let me look again. No luck, a pair of shoes were still standing there. But wait, they looked familiar, brown loafers, the little scratch on the side, about the right size... I knew those shoes! Sigh of relief. This was my chance, let me make a run for it. I opened the saloon door and ran, as I grabbed the main door handle I heard my husband's shocked voice: Swanny, is that you? I didn't answer, just bolted out, walked calmly through the restaurant while looking for the Purell in my purse.</span><br />
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</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I hope for another such opportunity. This time, I will just walk out with my head high, one hand on my hip, and say, Hi guys, how's it going?</span><br />
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</span>Swannyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09541607805857735462noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3917931459164124951.post-60516774460703958962011-01-05T16:42:00.000-08:002011-01-08T16:04:00.756-08:00Shall we have an espresso, mama?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
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<tr> <td style="background-color: white; height: 908.0px; padding: 1.0px 1.0px 1.0px 1.0px; width: 466.0px;" valign="top"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Ix-zr6RNvmo/TSULvi_d2BI/AAAAAAAAABY/DQhmTOKydMQ/s1600/IMG_0469.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Ix-zr6RNvmo/TSULvi_d2BI/AAAAAAAAABY/DQhmTOKydMQ/s400/IMG_0469.jpg" width="337" /></a> </td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Our embroidery</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </span></div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </span></div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </span></div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div></div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">There is a small coffee shop in the middle of a department store. Whenever mama and I passed by it, she would say, "Shall we have an espresso, hokiss*?" And we would. She'd save us a table in the corner and I would come with the coffee and perhaps a pastry. We'd share it, sometimes chatting, often quiet, just sitting there being together.</span></span></div></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Times; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 16px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Mama had a tough life. There were relocations, separation from her own family, wars, struggles, illnesses and deaths, but she always thought she was blessed. She had her five children around her. She had love. My father was not an easy man. He had his own ghosts that haunted him. Thinking back, I wish I was there for him, I asked him more, I hugged him more... but that's another story. Mama made it balance for us; she was the calm in the turmoil, she was the safe place to go when we were afraid. I think she had a way of accepting whatever the day brought with calm dignity, something I'm only just learning. I don't know why I don't remember any harsh or angry words from her. She must have been mad at me sometimes, specially during my early college days...but there were none. There were gentle talks, stories, and sometimes "the look", the "you should know better" look. Oh mama, looking at me with your beautiful, blue eyes full of love and pride, I never wanted to see disappointment in them.</span></span></div></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Times; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 16px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">She liked teaching with stories. Either she made them up or she had read them somewhere. One that stands out was the princess who was always sulking because she thought her sisters were prettier. The king sent her to the forest where she became very happy among the trees, animals, flowers and butterflies. One day she saw her reflection in the stream and gasped because she looked so lovely. The ugly princess had become beautiful once she had learned to love, smile and feel joy. Oh mama, I was that princess, wasn't I? Even at ten, I knew I was the princess. </span></span></div></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Times; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 16px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I was quite needy there for a short period of time, feeling "different" from the blue eyed, golden haired sisters, so mama made me her baking assistant. We made the most delicious pies and cakes - apple pie, walnut/raisin pie, chocolate cake and of course my brother's favorite lemon cake. She let me stir the batter and, yes, even lick the wooden spoon. Then we sang...</span></span></div></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Times; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 16px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Mama was a music teacher before her children took over her life. She knew songs in many different languages and sang them in her beautiful angelic voice. Sometimes, my father would accompany her on the mandolin and we'd have a mini concert right there in the living room. Years later when I met some of her brothers and her sister, I found out they all had beautiful voices, they all sang. How she must have missed them...</span></span></div></div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span> </span></div></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Times; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 16px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; font-family: Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: Times;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Times; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Were you happy, mama, in those days when I was growing up? Thinking of her days... she would be shopping for fresh produce from the street vendors, hanging laundry on the line on the roof, cooking the main meal for lunch, sewing with patterns from her favorite Burda magazine, visiting the neighbor ladies for some coffee and gossip perhaps, reading her precious Readers Digest, and then us... always us, feeding us, dressing us, waking us with a cup of Nescafe in her hands, bringing snacks in the wee hours when we were studying for exams, tucking us in. On Sundays, there was church choir. In the summers, there was canning and jelly making, and there were quiet hours of sitting together on the balcony in the village house, watching the stars and fireflies.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></div></div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Mama was about 50 years old when I left home; I had to go, it was safer for me to go, they loved me enough to let me go. She didn't say much. I was lying on the sofa when she came and sat next to me; she cradled my head in her lap and stroked my hair for a long time. She might have been singing </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">quietly. It felt like I was in a cocoon of love, warmth and pure goodness. She let me know with her touch. How I missed that touch later on when for months I didn't know if she was all right, if my family was all right. But that's another story.</span></div></div><div><br />
</div></div></div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The November before she died, mama came to visit me and stayed the entire month. That was her last gift to me. We spent the days together doing what I used to do in those days. She taught me new recipes; she taught me that a broken sugar bowl is not worth any anger. "May you have long life instead", she said. Now that my father was gone, she wanted to travel more around the country to visit her children. So we went shopping for suitcases and "outfits" as she called them. Mama had style. She must have sensed something in me, perhaps fear? Hesitation? Indecision? </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Do you want those little plates with pretty pictures of fruits on them? Can you afford them?" she asked. "Well then, just buy them, you don't need permission" she whispered. When did that happen mama? She calmly stood her ground. Looking my husband straight in the eye, she said, "My daughter likes this embroidery and she deserves to have it. It'll take time to choose the colored threads, but we're going to do that now, no matter how late we are for dinner. So please be patient". And he was. Patient. When did that happen, mama? What you didn't do for yourself, you could do for me. I was halfway done with that embroidery when she died, I finished it with my tears.</span></div></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Times; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 16px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">In the evenings, she sang songs to my sons, then we sat together, she with her knitting, I with my cross-stitch, and we talked. That's when I got to know mama. Of course I knew her as my mother all my life, but I got to know her as a friend, as a woman, as a human being. Did you know she always wanted to be a doctor? I found piles of health magazines by her bedside after her death, along with some poems and prayers. She told me about her youth, the courtship with father, the difficult years when her family left and she stayed behind as a newlywed. It wasn't enough, mama, I have more questions, I wish we had more time to talk. </span></span></div></div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span> </span></div></div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">But we ran out of time, she had to go back home. I took her to the airport. Mama walked down the corridor to the plane, in her fashionable trench-coat, with her colorful scarf around her neck. She stopped at the corner, turned around and waved to me, her arm in the air, her hand waving right, left, right in slow motion.... Then she was gone. Five weeks later she was really gone.</span></span></div></div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span> </span></div></div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I have visions of mama's hands; brushing my hair, stroking my face, cleaning, cooking, offering food, knitting, praying, hitting her knees when father died, holding my sons, waving goodbye, folded neatly together in the coffin... tired, soft, holy hands... I kiss her hands.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"></span></span></div></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Times; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 16px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 19.0px; text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The pain was indescribable at first. I collapsed at the foot of my bed, rocking back and forth, sobbing. No! This did not happen! No! Don't let them cut her! No! Mama? Mama! Mamaaaaaa!!! We went to Maryland to bury here next to my father. The skies were not happy, they were so angry they sent a blizzard, they cried No! with me... <span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></div></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Times; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 19px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Times; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 16px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"></span></span></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="background-color: white; border-collapse: collapse; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="background-color: white; height: 149.0px; padding: 1.0px 1.0px 1.0px 1.0px; width: 466.0px;" valign="top"><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Now, fifteen years later, the pain is less severe, it's more of a longing. After all she's right here with me in my heart. Are you here, mama? Do you see your grandsons? Are you proud? I wish we could talk now from this new place that I am...</span></span></div><div style="font: 13.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font: 13.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Sometimes, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I pass by our coffee shop in the department store, I look at the corner, and there's mama sitting at our table smiling at me. I smile back. Shall we have an espresso, hokiss, next time we meet?</span></div><div style="font: 16.0px Times; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span> </span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">*hokiss = term of endearment in the Armenian language. Meaning "my soul"</span></span></div></td></tr>
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</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div>Swannyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09541607805857735462noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3917931459164124951.post-89357733454127588292011-01-02T20:56:00.000-08:002011-01-02T21:20:50.774-08:00The Little Girl<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Ix-zr6RNvmo/TSFHILZ29gI/AAAAAAAAAA4/T0jCa2cvZ3c/s1600/th_Aliceswedding-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Ix-zr6RNvmo/TSFHILZ29gI/AAAAAAAAAA4/T0jCa2cvZ3c/s320/th_Aliceswedding-1.jpg" width="260" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I remember the dress. Her mother had made it for her; it was beautiful in a pretty blue. I don't remember what the occasion was and I don't remember if she was happy or was asked to smile for the photographer. The picture is blurry and faded just like my memory, but I recognize her eyes, her smile, her vibrant spirit. <br />
<br />
For a long time I had forgotten her. She had disappeared. I'm sure she was calling my name from somewhere deep inside but I was too busy and somewhat deaf. I was busy loving my sons with everything I had; busy losing my identity to the man I married and the role I was playing in life; busy getting hurt, developing a huge "pain body" inside created by feelings of neglect, abandonment, even nonexistence. I felt numb inside. I died. Then things shifted, everything aligned in the universe to bring me back to consciousness, slowly, gradually, painfully. It's still a process. <br />
<br />
One morning I looked in the mirror and there she was staring at me with those huge brown eyes, tears streaming down her cheeks. She didn't say a word but her eyes asked, why did you leave me behind? I hugged her and we cried together, then we laughed together. I'll never leave you again, I promised. I need your innocence, joy, faith and sunlight with me always. She has never left me since.<br />
<br />
Today, we sang songs, we doodled, we laughed at the silly birds who forgot to fly south, and we sent my sons funny texts with smiley faces. Tomorrow, well it hasn't happened yet but we might dance.Swannyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09541607805857735462noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3917931459164124951.post-27347087348520675272011-01-01T17:16:00.000-08:002011-01-01T17:19:52.338-08:00Here we go<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Ix-zr6RNvmo/TR-2_VJsiWI/AAAAAAAAAAM/P991DiXW9xM/s1600/IMG_0557.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Ix-zr6RNvmo/TR-2_VJsiWI/AAAAAAAAAAM/P991DiXW9xM/s320/IMG_0557.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
First day of 2011 -<br />
Alone but not lonely. Peaceful. <br />
I spent a few minutes reflecting on 2010; It was a strange year, not too productive, a little restless, I think because of emergence of consciousness. There were trips - New York, Washington DC, Toronto, Virginia, Chicago, New York again and again. But there were trips to doctors' offices as well.<br />
<br />
There was sadness and heartache, there were endings; but there was joy, music, dance, and there were beginnings and friends- old friends and new friends; people open enough that I could connect with them, even without ever meeting them. There were tears, but not too many outbursts and a lot more giggles. Overall, I think it was a transitional year, taking me closer to whatever it is which I seek. <br />
<br />
Now, there is quiet, peace and chocolate ice cream. Tomorrow, well tomorrow hasn't happened yet.Swannyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09541607805857735462noreply@blogger.com0