Our Greatest Enemy

I just received an email from a boyhood friend about a warning from a former Israeli agent who has lectured on anti-terrorism and is now a consultant to Congress. Sadly, those whom he has informed of the threats think we are too stupid or unable to handle the reality. Israel has a totally different approach to security than the USA. They are proactive, whilst America is reactive. it's a sad thing to say that the leadership of the United States is not informing people of the real dangers that exist. Since taking down Osama bin Laden, the terrorists have vowed revenge. US security policies are filled with political correctness to the terrorists tremendous advantages. Liberals in the United States have crippled our security agencies with things like anti-profiling that aids people who are trying to do us harm. Another attack like 9/11 is going to have to occur before this country wakes up to what it is really facing. I believe that our greatest threat is going to be from home-grown terrorists. Patriotism is a word rarely heard any more. Our schools no longer teach things like civics or American government. The children growing up in this day age have no idea of our history. They have no idea of what those who have gone before them have given in suffering and dying in fighting for their freedoms. We have only ourselves to blame. We have stood by and allowed people to pervert or circumvent our laws. By doing this, we have opened the door and invited in, unwelcome guests. I have met the enemy, and he is us.

Golden Years? Who the HELL dreamed that up?

I talk to my sister, Donna, on the phone every Tuesday. Most of our conversations are about how we are both coping on a day-t0-day basis. I have to admit her life is more interesting than mine. She has three sons, two of them are close to her, all three have kids of various ages. The oldest has three: two are married, the third is going to community college. The middle son has two, a son who is married with one child, and a daughter in high school. The youngest is married with three kids: all under six years old. It is usually these latter grandchildren who dominate the conversation. I have one unmarried daughter who has no interest in children or old people. That includes me. I can understand why she has such an aversion to the elderly. She was dragged along on visits to a series of nursing homes where her grandmother (her mother's mother) was housed after she fell and broke her hip. This woman was never going to win Grandmother of the Year. She was the most demanding and selfish woman I ever met. To make matters worse, she didn't talk, she screeched! Her voice grated on you like fingernails on a chalkboard. She did nothing to rehabilitate after her accident but complain about everything. She had complained about everything all of her life. It was a constant gripe session. No wonder the girl hated being around her. I did, too, but had to bite my tongue for my wife's sake. Now, I, too, am old. At 71, with not much to talk about except my writing, my shop projects (which do not interest my daughter), and my aches and pains, there is little to engender a desire to be around me. And besides, she live 40 miles from me. My golden years are severely tarnished. I have a mind full of marvelous things to do, but a body than won't let me do them. I had to give up my motorcycle, one of my greatest joys about a year ago, and I miss it. When I lost it, I not only lost a means of transportation, I lost the freedom and exhilaration that came with riding it. There is no other way to put it: getting old sucks. If I could catch the person who came up with the notion of Golden Years, I would rip out their tongue and beat them over the head with it.

Starting over

Here I am at the beginning of another writing project. As if the creation of my first book wasn't enough grief, I am now trying to produce one using my wife's grandkids as models. Fortunately, they are good models. Each of them has an interesting personality and traits that translate well into a story. They are of the correct age for a novel about youngsters and old enough to be able to do some interesting things as a group. Like some of the stories that have gone before such as the Hardy Boys or the Nancy Drew mysteries, their characters give a good mix that enables the plot to have multiple twists and turns. I describe one as brave, another as musically talented, the third as artistic, and one as athletic. Together, they have the makings of a team that has just the right mix of talents and skills to do the things outlined in the plot. I am not letting them know that they are being incorporated into the story until I had finished it. I want them to see themselves the way I see them. I hope that this has the desired effect. I love all of them, and I love the two new ones who are too young to be incorporated as they are only two and newborn. Maybe, if I live long enough, I'll write about them, too. Thanks to the experience gained with writing Double Trouble on Corned Beef Row, this one should be easier.

I answered my own question

Last post I wondered when I got old. This post I think I can answer it. Last Tuesday was my 71st birthday. I did not celebrate it. Why would anyone celebrate getting old? If I could grow a year younger like Benjamin Button, THAT I WOULD CELEBRATE! The only thing on the plus side was that I received two neat birthday presents: Billy Joel's Greatest Hits Volumes 1&2 from my Darling Judy, and a new digital camera from DDD. DDD is "Daddy's Darling Daughter," a.k.a., Karen. I love both of the gifts, but I love the givers more. My Darling Judy is omnipresent and the woman around whom my life revolves. Sadly, I do not see as much of Karen as I would like. She has her own life, and we only see each other a few times during the year. That's what happens when kids grow up and move away. Especially when there is a forty mile one-way trip to visit each other. I know she loves me, and she knows I love her, and that is what is important. As for the rest, c'est la vie!

A Tribute to My Mother

My mother, Rena May Battee, hadn't turned 19 when I was born, and the early memories I have of her were ones of a woman who was loving and gentle, but, also, no-nonsense. In a way, she was like an older sister. She and my Dad were young enough to still do things like sledding and roller skating, amusement parks, swimming and playing miniature golf. Mom was strong, too. Not just physically, but emotionally. She didn't fall apart in a crisis. She could do a man's work, if she had to, and that happened often when Dad came home from WWII. They bought a little house in Baltimore that took lots of "fixing up," as they used to say. She had to go to work to help support our growing family. My second sister was born after we moved in there, and Dad's earnings were not enough to feed, clothe and educate in a parochial school three kids.
Above all other attributes, Mom was loving. Her children knew she cared deeply about them and knew she would fight for them, if necessary. I remember one time a grouchy neighbor started hollering at us kids for getting a ball out of her yard by climbing the fence. When she came out of the yard wielding a broom, my mother, like a mama lion, came out and went nose-to-nose with her to straighten her out. She encouraged, nursed, worked to support ,protected and suffered for us.
The greatest blessing I could wish for every child would be that they should have a mother like mine. The jails would be empty and they would all grow to be responsible, caring people.

No Imagination?

My sister and I have a ritual we perform each week. We have a telephone conversation every Tuesday. She called today because she is going on a trip tomorrow. She told me about spending the weekend with her two youngest grandkids. She said after an exhausting day, they wanted her to read them a story at bedtime. The only problem with that is they want to look at pictures while she reads it. She wanted them to go to sleep. Her solution was to TELL them a story which she made up. She had them close their eyes and IMAGINE what she was saying. She started narrating, and one of the first characters in it was a unicorn. When she was ready to finish the story, Aidan, the youngest, said, "Grandmom, I see it!" "What do you see?" she asked. He answered,
"the unicorn." If kids nowadays have no imagination, we can only blame the grown ups who have robbed them of needing one with Xbox, Wii, and TV. Where are we going to get our next generation capable of creative thinking? Creating your own fun out of your imagination is part of growing up. At least it was for me.