Author: 3RueSleidan

poem- stand up

Posted by

0

We can fight for education, but until the public really wants it, we will get nowhere. I am a former teacher myself. I was a damn good one, too; but the lackluster system drove me elsewhere into a new profession. When something is free, people perceive it as not too valuable. We are “paying” for education through taxes, of course, but no one really gets the connection these days since so many don’t even pay taxes. And they are not educated enough to understand how the system works. We still have a long way to go to motivate our citizens to give up their TV reality shows and read Dickens or Balzac instead!

Shawn L. Bird's avatarShawn L. Bird

“Why are teachers even bothering to picket,

when you aren’t getting strike pay any more?”

he asked.

I told him it was because teachers are moralists

who are defending democracy

and fair working & bargaining conditions

against a corrupt government:

A government that ignores the court rulings

spends billions of tax payers’ dollars appealing

judgments by the Supreme Court

and the United Nations saying they

are WRONG to steal from our kids.

It will pay billions for a stadium roof,

but will not pay for educating its children.

I told him that in such a war,

pay is a small thing.

We will fight, because if our government

succeeds in destroying OUR union

then every other working person in this province

is in peril.

If OUR contracts can be shredded with impunity,

so can YOURS!

We are fighting for YOUR rights

and for our students’ right to a funded education

against a government with an…

View original post 16 more words

Fathers

Posted by

0

Fathers share a special place in our hearts. They are our biggest cheerleaders, our toughest critics and our shoulder to cry on when something goes wrong.

They teach us how to drive stick shift, how to pass Algebra and how to change a seed into a blooming flower. They are our heroes. They fight for us. They fight for our country. They take us to swim practice and ballet class. They juggle work, family and making ends meet. They read us a story at bedtime and drop us off at school in the morning. They even let us drive the car sometimes with our friends.

They cry at our weddings. They teach our children about the joys of fishing and life. They become wonderful grandfathers. We remember them forever, even long after they are gone. Their warm hugs remain in our memories and their spirit remains in our hearts, as does their love.

So today, I salute all the fathers who have made their kids better and made the world a better place, too. Thank you, dads.

Fear Not

Posted by

0

I am now at the age when death is a reality. While death is ever present even from the time we are young, it somehow looms ever larger as we age…perhaps it is our own destiny that brings everything into perspective. Losing a loved one clarifies a lot.

I lost my father in 1983 and my mother in 1999, so both have been gone for many years. They died sooner than I would have liked, but we cannot change what is. We can only accept and live with it. When my husband died in 2010, it was far more difficult. He was my everyday friend in life, the man who loved me more than life itself. There remains a huge void with his departure from this Earth.

But loss is part of life. We each have a beginning and an end. We cannot escape that. I was at a seminar recently about advance care planning. The instructor asked us each to think about our first encounter with death. Initially, I thought about my grandfather. I was 13 when he died peacefully in my parents’ bedroom. My grandmother opened the front door of our house just as my sister and I were running in laughing after a rousing game of bound-ball in the heat of a sunny Florida afternoon. Her words stunned us.

“He’s gone,” she said curtly. “Your grandfather’s gone.”

My sister and I looked at one another puzzled about the clarity of the message. What did she mean? We tiptoed in the house and as we passed by my mother’s bedroom door, we got a glimpse of Grand-daddy. My mother told us we should say goodbye to him and gave us permission to enter the room. Inching closer to the bed, the finality of it all caused my face to burn bright red. It was the first time I had seen someone dead. He looked very peaceful, as I recall, but definitely not moving or winking his eye at me like he always used to do. He was gone, as my grandmother had said.

That memory spawned yet another and I realized that I had been touched by death even earlier than as a young teen. When I was about nine years old, I lost a kitten. I have always been a cat lover and had kittens from the time I was a young kid, even though my father didn’t like them very much. Our cat had kittens one spring and there were four of them running around the yard since we weren’t allowed to have them indoors. Sometimes I would sneak them into my bedroom at night, but generally they had to survive outdoors. One morning, it was raining hard. I was standing on the front porch looking for my kittens to bring them in from the rain. My father was leaving for work and I knew I could hide them easily. I waved goodbye to him as he darted through the raindrops and got into the car. He turned on the ignition. One of my kittens, trying to get out of the rain, had taken shelter behind the wheel of the car. As Dad backed out of the driveway, I witnessed the death of my sweet, little furry friend, watching as she flipped in the air with the impact of the car, her lifeless body landing flat on the concrete, soaked and dying.

Death makes a lasting impression on us. It helps us realize the beauty of life. It helps us appreciate what we have, those we love, and what is most important. It’s easy to get caught up in the brouhaha of wanting success, love, wealth, or power. In the end, we all die. And what is most important is telling those we love that we love them, we forgive them, and we ask that they forgive us. We want peace and we want to be pain free. And last of all, we do not want to be a burden to our families.

My memories of death include the most recent one of my husband, of course. I was with him when he died, although it was not as I had hoped. We had no hospice. He lay in a sterile hospital bed when the doctor told me he had only a few days to live. But I knew that he was dying. I had seen that for months. One of the mistakes doctors and families make is not calling upon hospice soon enough. The hospice benefit is available for patients with a prognosis of six months or less to live. Had my family been given those six months of care, my husband’s death would have been far more peaceful and my family would have gotten the support we needed both then and afterward as the deepest of all grief begins to take over your life for what seems like years.

My advice to one and all is to consider hospice care much earlier in the process. Time and time again, families tell me that they wish they had known about hospice sooner. It is a wonderful benefit available to those with insurance or not since non-profit hospices care for everyone no matter their ability to pay. CMS (Medicare) covers hospice services, as does other commercial insurances. Ask for it. Don’t wait until 24 hours before your loved one dies. Ask for hospice care months before… when you, your loved one and your family need it the most. It is an amazing benefit. Don’t be afraid of asking for hospice.

Coyote Morning

Posted by

0

A defiant coyote tested me one morning. Just like that coyote I remember from the cartoons my father used to read us when I was a kid. The cartoonist portrayed his coyote as the dumb one forever missing his prey. That invented coyote lived in the desert and he was very persistent. He was relentless in his pursuit of a hard-won meal. But he chased a very smart cartoon roadrunner.

What I learned from the cartoon coyote was to never give up. No matter how hard the goal, no matter how many obstacles, never give up hope. So on this one morning I was also persistent.

I trust my dog Allie explicitly. She is very selective about voicing her opinion. Once when she would not stop barking, it was because a rattlesnake was curled up in her doghouse. We had to call the animal control people to capture and remove the huge snake. So when Allie alerts me to something amiss, I pay attention.

She had given me some advance warning. The night before, she pawed at the door to be let out, whining and impatient. As I opened the sliding glass, she darted out and immediately began to bark at the darkness beyond the fence enclosing my backyard. She leaped up anxiously to the flowerbeds and stared through the wire as she continued her menacing noise.

Allie has never had much of an accent, just pure dog, a joyful blend of Yellow Lab and Boxer. Her sound is not quite as deep as her stepsister Birdie, a mix of Border Collie and Airedale Terrier, whose voice will put the fear into any creature — canine, feline or homo sapiens. Allie appeared fretful that night. She wanted to conquer whatever was lurking beyond my view. I called her back inside and the rest of the evening was quiet.

The next morning, I went downstairs to let the dogs out for their usual morning stroll around the yard, sniffing at bushes and relieving themselves. I prepared their breakfast.

At 15 years old, Birdie gets three pain pills daily to manage her advancing arthritis. She has figured out that the tasty pill pockets I bought are designed to hide the sour tasting medicine, so I have resorted to peanut butter as a mask for getting her to swallow the painkillers. She licks the spoon eagerly and the nasty pills along with the gooey peanut butter. Once all medicines have been administered, the dogs follow closely to my heels as I carry bowls filled with rations of kibbles. Their mouths salivate and barely allow me enough time to place their breakfast on the deck before they devour the food.

After feeding the dogs, I returned indoors and went upstairs to get ready for work. Then the barking started again. Annoyed at the interruption, I walked into the guest bedroom so I could get a better view of the backyard and the reason for the barking. An out-of-focus creature was standing in the field just beyond the back fence. I had my suspicions, but I wasn’t wearing my contacts. I raced back to my bedroom, grabbed my glasses, and returned to the guest-room window. There he was, now clear as could be. The coyote.

Allie and Birdie were both barking in unison at this point, hugging the fence as closely as they could get to their wild canine brethren. Still in my nightgown, I ran downstairs to see how I could affect the outcome of this early morning encounter.

The visitor was nonchalant. His brown coat nearly blended in with the summer grasses that cover our California hillsides. We are in a drought and animals seek water wherever they can find it. I am usually happy to share whatever I have with the wildlife that live around my house, but a coyote could kill one of my cats. They are to be feared.

I puffed myself up like a cat protecting its territory, trying to be as ferocious as possible.

“Shoo!” I said to the coyote, raising my arms in an attempt to frighten him.

He lifted his head from whatever he had been licking on the ground and stared at me intently. For a moment, our eyes were locked. He returned to his feast.

“Shoo! Shoo!” I tried a second time.

Ever feel like you are in a cartoon? That moment, I could have drawn a wonderful picture of coyote versus human and dogs. Coyote (1) and Human/Dogs (0).

The coyote clearly had the upper hand. He somehow knew that a tall fence separated him from the barking dogs and me. He was in his safe territory and we were in ours. So what was the big deal?

I searched around the yard for a rock or something else I could throw at him, but without success. Allie’s tennis ball was nowhere to be found. I would have easily sacrificed that. My next idea was water.

I set the hose to jet mode and aimed it over the fence in the direction of the coyote. I knew the water would not reach him, but it would be close enough and perhaps convince him to safely depart the neighborhood. The water flowed like rain into the dry grass, a mist of comfort, no doubt, to an animal seeking sustenance. He stood in the mist for a moment, relishing the rain. And then he turned and ran, but only a few feet before he stopped to look at me again.

We stared at one another. Two wild animals, loners from the pack, each of us just trying to survive.

My dogs continued their incessant barking, uneasy with this foreigner in their midst. The coyote was brave. He was defiant. He took risks.

Eventually the animal trotted off across the meadow and into the safety of the woods. I hope he returns some day.

 

Lake Del Valle

Posted by

0

Breath is cold as I stare at my boots
Preparing for the inevitable
The mystic journey of my life
 
I am not ready for the once easy trek
Travels that took me far and wide
Without complication or trauma
 
Hills to cross and crosses to bear
Remains to be discovered of deer
That hunger for their young
 
Violet horns and golden hair sweep
Through the tunnels of destination
Wherever that will be for me
 
The road not clear as it once was
Feet not so sturdy or confident
Yet none of that really matters
 
Water is plentiful with fish of all kinds
Gathering to feed and renew their young
As I now also come to feed my soul
 
Lake of the Valley glistens
The moon crests upon its breast
Heaves and weeps to light the way
 
Wings dip into its shore and search
For answers and sustenance
To carry life to its end or more
 
Each toe in the sand kicks rocks
By accident discovering mouths
That need food, promises to fill
 
My hike exhausts at best
Exhilarates at worst and
Cleanses my soul eternally
 
Wind captures the Lake of the Valley
Trees mourn their loss as gusts force
Roaming grasses to bend and flow
 
I bend and flow, too, as I see life
Pass before me and beyond me
Yet I am here on this trail forever
 
The trail guides me to where I should be
Air, water, and earth sound their trumpets
I listen and my boots move forward
 

— Victoria Emmons, 2014 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Celebrate Mothers

Posted by

0

Today we celebrate mothers. We celebrate all those fine women who have loved, given their all, planned, saved, and sacrificed so that children can have a happy life, no matter how long that life is. Some of us today will hug our children tightly. Some will text them or talk on FaceTime. Some will remember their children … remember the gift they were to us.

So for all the mothers, grandmothers, stepmothers and other people who served as mothers, as so many are often called upon to do, we celebrate you. It is through your kindness, love, caring and concern that children get a good start in life. And with a good start, with love and guidance, children become good mothers and fathers, too.

Happy Mother’s Day!

The Rhythms of the House

Posted by

0

Jack never lost his sense of humor. As he lay dying in our spacious bedroom, the room we had shared for 11 years, he would joke to me about any number of things. He’d kid me about not keeping the tables dusted. Or he’d muse about me feeding too much water to the potted tomato vines on the deck. And he would assign me to-do lists.

He pointed out that in January, the moths would arrive for three weeks at our front door and then disappear just as quickly. He said that I needed to be patient with them as they continued their life cycle. He knew I didn’t like it when they accidentally flew into the house and fluttered all around.

He reminded me that tiny birds would be building another nest as they did every spring at the apex of our front roof. They would leave a mess right underneath their nest and that I could clean it up with some good old soap and water. I remember how much he liked to listen to their song in the last few weeks of his life when his hearing became especially acute.

Jack told me to look in the garden tool bin to find the leaf blower so that I could keep the driveway clear of leaves. He said I would need to fill the gas can as the blower ran on gas. I was never good at filling gas cans.

He wanted to be sure I knew about how to care for the hydrangeas. Our hydrangea bushes were beautiful and full, filled with incredible flowers in white, pink and purple. They were Jack’s doing. He had the green thumb in the family. He told me where to find the blue coloring for the soil and which plant food to use.

He added to my checklist the need for getting a new license tag for the X5, getting the Z3 cleaned, and making sure I got the oil changed in the Infiniti. And he reminded me to keep the cars clean and smelling nice in the interior. He always kept his cars very clean.

Fawns will come around in the late spring and early summer, he proclaimed, although I already knew that. He wanted to be sure I put the potted hydrangeas in the fenced backyard since the ones on the deck risk having their flowers devoured by the deer.

Leave the crooked pine tree in the backyard. I like that tree, he said. I know you want to remove it, but leave it alone. It is struggling, but it is okay where it is.

September can get rather hot, he said. Jack wanted me to understand how the automatic sprinkler system works so that the plants would receive the optimal amount of water. The system is a little antiquated, but still works except for a few sprinkler heads that need changing. How do I do that?

In October, he said, the Great Horned Owls will come back. They will perch in the big oak tree just behind our fence and hoot enough to make Birdie bark like crazy. Our dog hates the owls. And the enormous birds simply hoot away, oblivious to the anxiety of the dog.

Wild turkeys are plentiful, but especially so in November, oddly enough. Jack reminded me that the turkeys will leave a mess on the driveway almost daily and that it would require the high-powered sprayer to keep it clean. Look for it in the tool bin.

The Christmas tree is in its usual box in the garage, he said. Get someone to help you put it up. The colors on each limb have to match up with the ones on the central trunk of the tree. You have to check for burned out bulbs on the string of lights, too, or they won’t turn on. Then you can hang all your ornaments on it as you like to do every year. Remember that the tree has to go up the day after Thanksgiving.

Leaves are piled up on the driveway. Sometimes the neighbor comes over and blows them away for me. The holly tree died in this year’s drought. The pine tree had to be taken down, dying from the top as it did. The bushes are way overgrown in the back yard. Neither the hydrangeas nor the roses got pruned properly last winter.

The moths still arrive each January, as do the owls in October. And the tiny birds have laid eggs in their nest under the eaves.

The Christmas tree has not been decorated in two years since the holiday was celebrated with family in another state.

Before he died that summer, Jack shared with me what he called the rhythms of the house.  I will never be able to finish the to-do list he gave me.

Dust to Dust

Posted by

0

Choking dust encircles my head

Creeps alongside my bed

Like so many forgotten chores

When life has opened other doors

 

Yet times await in this short life

Places, sites, or smells delight

My fancies for a lack of toil

Instead to be on peaceful soil

 

Where no one asks for sweet perfume

Nor hedges straight and in full bloom

They care not for a new prediction

On yet another health affliction

 

And thus I seek new ways to feed

My already weakened memory

Of he who used to share my bed

Since all that’s left is in my head

 

—Victoria Emmons, June 2012