tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-151279342024-03-13T08:47:02.793-05:00The Mom of OZOz has a great but very simply philosophy - that everybody had a heart, that everybody had a brain, that everybody had courage. These were the gifts that were given to people on this earth, and if you used them properly, you reached the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. And that pot of gold was a home. And a home isn't just a house or an abode..., Its people. People who love you and that you love. That's home. - Ray Bolger aka the ScarecrowJaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08455764039212519400noreply@blogger.comBlogger1195125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15127934.post-47718636566119468382020-12-21T21:27:00.000-06:002020-12-21T21:27:04.359-06:00Is this thing still on? <p> Oh my my my, my twisted relationship with this blog, sigh. Long ago I started this with trepidation because is anything more annoying that navel gazing? Yes there is one thing: mommy navel gazing. Then despite that I promoted it, because hells bells, FRIENDS for a stay at home mommy. Then blogging led to reading and that led to listening and that led to learning and I had a major worldview change and lost said friends. I found myself in different circles and as my babies left the breast, then my side I found a new stage of life. I abandoned this little thing of 1200 posts in a cradle of privacy on the internet. </p><p>And here I am six something years later. I am a working mom back to the profession I started long ago with my firstborn in my belly. There’s a pandemic at hand and a midlife crisis in this soul I don’t actually believe in. I am no longer fretting over how to grow my young babes healthy I know a hell of a lot about birth and breastfeeding and find myself here on a random weeknight searching evidence based dementia prevention. </p><p>I hear those hearty babies playing a board game with their dad at the table rowdy and cursing, mentally sharp as a tack. Maybe because I’ve lost my mom and her sharp wit, maybe because my job forces me to the face the slow ravages mortal decay often, or maybe because the news has us all preoccupied with death and it’s daily numbers, or maybe because I can’t remember phone numbers as fast as I once could ... I sit here contemplating what I’ll leave one day. Do I want the time I waste on technology to be a compendium of “likes” somewhere or words my loves, those babies can keep. </p><p>I’m going to start writing again. I hope. This won’t be the community it was for me. Maybe now just a quiet place to self bloviate. </p><p>And if you were wondering factors that contribute to dementia: </p><p><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(204, 204, 204, 0.5); -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"> </span><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(204, 204, 204, 0.5); -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">less education, hypertension, hearing impairment, smoking, obesity, depression, physical inactivity, diabetes, and low social contact. We now add three more risk factors for dementia with newer, convincing evidence. These factors are excessive alcohol consumption, traumatic brain injury, and air pollution</span></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Janiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08455764039212519400noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15127934.post-44973731270519162262014-09-09T13:08:00.000-05:002014-09-09T13:08:04.920-05:00Day is done, gone the sun... <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I'm pretty sure I'm letting the blog go guys. As soon as I've settled my thoughts I'm either deleting it or its going private. Its been a good thing in total. I made friends I wouldn't have otherwise. I lost some too. I recorded memories that I might not have without the blog.<br />The kids like looking back, I know Ella spend a good amount of time looking at old posts.<br /></div>
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All told it does bring me some degree of embarrassment now. The navel gazing and all.<br /><br /><br />Before I close the door I thought it might be interesting to peruse over the posts that went unposted. There were over 50 drafts never published in my queue. Some became other posts or landed on other blogs. Some never did. So here they are - the first drafts that have sat in the corner. </div>
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Just a bit more. </div>
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for now.</div>
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<br />
4/13/06:<br />
<br />
"Can't go to bed"<br />
<br />
So last night I was putting yet another coat of paint on the bathroom walls and Benjamin busts in with blood on his face - I immediately sent him to Kyle thinking he had bust his nose. But it was his tooth - It was very close to coming out - which got Benjamin so excited - not about actually losing the tooth - its all about the money. In fact I have even caught Ella tugging on her teeth. When asked she replied "I want some money real bad!"<br />
<br />
5/18/07:<br />
<br />
"Don't embarrass me"<br />
<br />
[Blank]<br />
<br />
6/27/07<br />
<br />
"Soundtrack of motherhood"<br />
<br />
In a bummed out mood a few weeks ago I dusted off my CD case, pulled out two of my top five most fav CD's (Paul Simon's Graceland and Disc two of Janis Joplin's greatest hits) stole my sister's boombox took it to the bathroom, filled the tub and turned the volume to just shy of earthquake. IT WAS WONDERFUL... I used to be a music fiend, not in the skill department only in appreciation. I had a CD of some sort for every occasion and on my person pretty much at all times. From my first mixed tape which included Milli Vanilli I was hooked. My days usually consisted of lip synching in the shower, VH1 on all the time - back when they played music, then falling asleep to Enya. That is until giving birth. My music took a back seat to listening for the baby in case he cried, talking to the kids in the car, being the referee at home, Dora in the background, Laurie Berkner on road trips, and finally peace and quiet at the end of the day. Well since that bath with Janis the other week I have started to reclaim music. Other than CMT while cleaning the house - I've been missing something and didn't even notice.I've pulled more out, Beatles white album, Robert Earl Keen, Creedence, Duran Duran, Tim McGraw, and you know what? The kids are liking my music! - take that Dora - Then my awesome husband came home from work yesterday with the Essential Paul Simon set for me. It was better than jewelry. Its great to be loved and its really nice to dust off a little bit of the mommy every once in a while.<br />
<br />
7/16/07:<br />
<br />
"Fort Worth"<br />
<br />
Meg, the awesome sister that she is offered herself for the weekend to watch the kids - so off we went to a romantic weekend in Fort Worth - It was so much fun.<br />
<br />
10/12/07<br />
<br />
"Take the keys away from your kid"<br />
<br />
Or they'll go joyriding<br />
<br />
10/26/07<br />
<br />
"The World"<br />
<br />
has to pay for a few idiots<br />
<br />
<br />
2/20/08<br />
<br />
"Why I blog"<br />
<br />
"Mama used to roll her hair~Back before the central air~We'd sit outside and watch the stars at night~She'd tell me to make a wish~I'd wish we both could fly~Don't think she's seen the sky~Since we got the satellite dish" Lyrics to Levelland by Robert Earl Keen<br />
<br />
3/4/08<br />
<br />
"Crack and Rice"<br />
<br />
Oh Mom, I love you! And I love the White beans and rice you made for my at Christmas, it was sad to be sick then, and not want any - but you so lovingly froze them for me.<br />
<br />
3/18/08<br />
<br />
"Cravings and Frustrations"<br />
<br />
I am having<br />
<br />
9/5/08<br />
<br />
"DANG Sarah,"<br />
<br />
[blank]<br />
<br />
10/6/08<br />
<br />
"OK"<br />
<br />
so asking for volunteers scares everybody away... I get it.<br />
<br />
10/11/08<br />
<br />
"It's hard sometimes"<br />
<br />
being so far away from family - Gram is in the ICU tonight - our prayers are with her.<br />
<br />
11/4/08<br />
<br />
"Ever try"<br />
<br />
to remember everything you ate in the last 24 hours?<br />
<br />
1/27/09<br />
<br />
"Hey Lady!!"<br />
<br />
[blank]<br />
<br />
3/26/09<br />
<br />
"Seesaw"<br />
<br />
That is what I am lately, I swing from one extreme emotion to the next.<br />
<br />
Gratitude<br />
I have gained a new perspective from this job loss. What has seemed crushingly difficult and emotionally painful has made me appreciate the little things and the HUGE things.<br />
How grateful I am to have such a wonderful husband. He is loyal to me and our family. He works very, very hard to provide for us. How lucky I am that<br />
<br />
5/26/09<br />
<br />
"Bullets again"<br />
<br />
There is too much I will sum up:<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<ul>
<li>Happy Birthday Meg!!!!!!!! We love you so much!</li>
<li>Went to the lake yesterday - It became and unplanned party </li>
</ul>
</div>
<br />
7/16/09<br />
<br />
"update"<br />
<br />
I really do have things to blog about in my own life, but I am too busy. I have been reorganizing and LOVING my re-decorated family room. I have been getting our family calendar on google calendar. BUT I had to get on here and tell you what I read in the paper this morning:<br />
<br />
8/30/09<br />
<br />
"Keeping it real"<br />
<br />
so there is a blog thing going around where you post pics of your dirty house to prove you aren't perfect - I am going to twist things up a bit because most of you's dang well know I don't keep a very clean house. I could kill myself tryin - four kids, two adults, one dog, one cat - its just too much.<br />
The efforts I think most about are finances and that is where I think my duty as a housewife pays off - literally. so here's to keeping it real - a view into our budget. What do you think - how do we compare?<br />
<br />
** Disclaimer - most people don't openly share info about their finances - so be nice. I don't really understand completely why that is - do we care more about the allusion of our status than how the books actually balance?<br />
<br />
bills<br />
Tithing - won't tell that one because even though I'm for putting it all out there you don't need to know exactly how much we make - but trust us we pay our 10% GROSS<br />
Fast Offering - 30.00 (honestly I am never sure here -I feel like that is generous for us now - but I'd love to give more - The fast offerings of others helped us in our darkest hours we want to repay the favor)<br />
House<br />
<br />
9/24/09<br />
<br />
"Savin more money"<br />
<br />
no more dropping off all dress shirts at dry cleaners - its all me now... turns out I've been ironing wrong:<br />
<br />
10/19/09<br />
<br />
"Say it ain't so"<br />
<br />
You know what makes you feel old??<br />
Getting the alumni catalog from here on your birthday and staring at all the baby faced freshman on the cover.<br />
<br />
I flipped through quickly and saw the map for the Longwood of the future. The plans for expansion -making my college newer, fresher, more green, more cultural.<br />
<br />
12/17/09<br />
<br />
"UPDATED again"<br />
<br />
Benjamin's team came in 2nd place in Art History<br />
<br />
<br />
Ella came in 4th place overall in the Storytelling<br />
<br />
5/17/11<br />
<br />
"I get a little panicked at this time"<br />
<br />
or in other words I get a little raw in this post<br />
<br />
1/1/12<br />
<br />
[title blank]<br />
<br />
My boys are intact, and the only ones on both sides who are. I remember not long ago trying to explain circumcision to my daughter and oldest son (7 and 9) and they were HORRIFIED. My daughter kept asking "How could someone do that to a little baby?" So, I'm hoping this means the cycle is broken for good in this family. :)<br />
<br />
1/11/12<br />
<br />
"the thing is everything is reactionary"<br />
<br />
I like "off the beaten path" pages on facebook:<br />
<br />
5/3/12<br />
<br />
"completely irrational thoughts"<br />
<br />
So I feel strongly about my pet peeves. More than one should. And I am quite aware that they make no sense like these:<br />
<br />
People that stay in the merge lane onto the interstate until the absolute last second even though they could have merged hours before.<br />
<br />
Christian Rock Music. I just keep picturing Jesus saying (in my mom's voice) "Turn that crap off!!"<br />
<br />
Gigantic Bows/ Flowers on baby girls heads. I LOVED the look before, now, not so much.<br />
<br />
5/11/12<br />
<br />
"Waiting..."<br />
<br />
I had my<br />
<br />
5/16/12<br />
<br />
"Happy Birthday Benjamin"<br />
<br />
Benjamin turned twelve today!<br />
<br />
<br />
TWELVE<br />
<br />
cough, cough. Time really does fly - they aren't lying. We have six more years until EIGHTEEN.<br />
<br />
<br />
crazy talk I tell ya.<br />
<br />
<br />
Benjamin is such a good kid. He started the year off in pre-ap math and did stuff I can't do with a calculator. Shoot stuff I can't do with google and two calculators. Then mid year he moved into pre-ap english, And he is one of the top AR readers in that class. His english teacher has been so impressed he is a teachers assistant in one of her other classes.<br />
<br />
<br />
He really does read all the time. For his birthday I could not find a book that he hadn't already read.<br />
<br />
<br />
If I had decided to homeschool I think I would be at a loss at this point in his education. Sad but true.<br />
<br />
<br />
He is excelling at the Tuba or as we call it around here the tooooooo-ba.<br />
<br />
<br />
I think Benjamin is one of those kids that is turning out awesome despite my skills as a mother not because of them.<br />
<br />
8/22/12<br />
<br />
"do we ever have an obligation to help make things better?"<br />
<br />
“When I became convinced that the universe is natural; that all the ghosts and gods are myths, there entered into my brain, into my soul, into every drop of my blood, the sense, the feeling, the joy of freedom. The walls of my prison crumbled and fell, the dungeon was flooded with light, and all the bolts, and bars, and manacles became dust. I was no longer a servant, a serf, or a slave. There was for me no master in all the wide world; not even in infinite space. I was free; free to think, to express my thoughts; free to live to my own ideal; free to use all my faculties, all my senses; free to spread imagination's wings; free to investigate, to guess and dream and hope; free to judge and determine for myself; free to reject all ignorant and cruel creeds, all the "inspired" books that savages have produced, and all the barbarous legends of the past; free from popes and priests; free from all the "called" and "set apart"<br />
; free from sanctified mistakes and holy lies; free from the fear of eternal pain; free from the winged monsters of the night; free from devils, ghosts, and gods. For the first time I was free. There were no prohibited places in all the realms of thought; no air, no space, where fancy could not spread her painted wings; no chains for my limbs; no lashes for my back; no fires for my flesh; no master's frown or threat; no following another's steps; no need to bow, or cringe, or crawl, or utter lying words. I was free. I stood erect and fearlessly, joyously, faced all worlds.<br />
<br />
And then my heart was filled with gratitude, with thankfulness, and went out in love to all the heroes, the thinkers who gave their lives for the liberty of hand and brain; for the freedom of labour and thought; to those who proudly mounted scaffold's stairs; to those whose flesh was scarred and torn; to those by fire consumed; to all the wise, the good, the brave of every land, whose thoughts and deeds have given freedom to the sons of men. And then I vowed to grasp the torch that they had held, and hold it high, that light might conquer darkness still.” (Robert. G. Ingersoll, "Why I Am Agnostic", 1896)<br />
<br />
11/25/12<br />
<br />
"Circ Diatribe"<br />
<br />
You probably know from just being on facebook with me that I couldn't possibly feel more strongly about this issue. I don't care about people's 'opinions' on most issues - I'm a "live and let live" kind of person. Except when it comes to this issue for the sake of babies.<br />
I am involved frequently in these conversations and it can be hard to not interject in the forums I discuss this issue in, I get it. You see me commenting on the ticker and it makes you want to say your side. You are not the first friend to do it.<br />
But you lost my respect by what you said. You could have left it at " I happen to like my circumcised penis." that is fine and I am glad you do. But you added a completely uncalled for tirade about how disgusting the intact penis is. If you don't have one - how do you know? and for moms like me you are talking about our sons.<br />
And every single point you made was wrong.<br />
I can't really describe the horrible reaction I have to people bragging about circumcising their sons. It really does break my heart. I made that decision for my son and he has had terrible side effects from that procedure. Then I learned all there was to know about the issue and its really horrific if you research it. It can't be compared to anything else we do to babies, its not like a vaccine, riding in a car, clipping fingernails, cutting the cord, etc. I mean even the thread in question started from a baby in an ER bleeding out because of this senseless act.<br />
Everything you said is popular myth, but none of it is true. You are the perfect example of how cultural conditioning confuses even smart people. It is the exact cultural conditioning that keeps me speaking out. I can't wait for the day that this is a non-issue. And you might want to read up more about it before you are a grandfather, because chances are good that the next generation (your grandsons) will all remain intact. Circumcision rates are decreasing.<br />
Once you care for an intact baby you realize how adhered the foreskin is and that cutting it away is like putting a blunt object all the way under your fingernail ripping the fingernail away then cutting it off at the base. Except even worse because the foreskin is the most sensitive part of the penis. - it is not dead skin dulling sensation like you said in your post.<br />
It really is a horrible thing to do to babies. It just is. I am not and advocate for this issue to make grown men feel bad about their circumcised penis. Most are ok. And I am glad for them. But we should not keep doing this to babies.<br />
<br />
<br />
1/12/13<br />
<br />
[title blank]<br />
<br />
I am Janie a girl raised Mormon in the South, not an easy thing. I am currently losing my faith and finding it at the same time, just in different places<br />
<br />
1/16/13<br />
<br />
"plus size birth"<br />
<br />
The straps didn't fit right.<br />
<br />
3/27/13<br />
<br />
"I am not a mormon... anymore"<br />
<br />
[blank]<br />
<br />
5/8/13<br />
<br />
"Deicide"<br />
<br />
[blank]<br />
<br />
5/22/13<br />
<br />
"Big family road trips"<br />
<br />
We just went to Virginia (so Texas is awesome but man ya'll Virginia is so. dang. beautiful.)<br />
<br />
8/4/13<br />
<br />
"Questions"<br />
<br />
There was the blog post<br />
<br />
8/14/13<br />
<br />
"Love made me"<br />
<br />
I finished Penn Jillette's new book last night. It was so good, and so so bad in parts. I'm pretty a pretty open thinker but whew parts made me blush and a couple pissed me off.<br />
<br />
There was a chapter where he talked about the unconditional love of his family. And he said - that's how you be me, be very, very loved by people no matter what. I felt that. as they say:<br />
<br />
I really felt that sentiment man.<br />
<br />
10/9/13<br />
<br />
"Equal footing"<br />
<br />
When one exits a paradigm<br />
<br />
3/24/14<br />
<br />
"Why Mormonism's claim IS so crazy"<br />
<br />
There is a popular blog floating about today, especially among devout Mormons. Since I was one of those myself. An active endowed church member I thought I would take a moment to address it.<br />
<br />
Mormonism is either one of the biggest frauds in human history or it is the second most important thing to ever happen on this planet.<br />
<br />
Just because a lot of people do something does not make it true. That thing would still need evidence. Do we have evidence of ANY of Joseph's claims? no<br />
<br />
4/3/14<br />
<br />
"What almost a year of skepticism has taught me"<br />
<br />
Don't know exactly what sparked my interest in skepticism. I remember one thread where someone struggling with moving on from religion said I am now inspired by people who don't just take away the incorrect things I believed but teach me something new. They are positive. Then they listed some names like<br />
<br />
Neil deGrasse Tyson<br />
Steven Novella<br />
Michael Shermer<br />
James Randi<br />
<br />
Today.<br />
<br />
"Change Direction"<br />
<br />
I like nonsense, it wakes up the brain cells. Fantasy is a necessary ingredient in living, it's a way of looking at life through the wrong end of a telescope. Which is what I do, and that enables you to laugh at life's realities.<br />
Dr. SeussJaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08455764039212519400noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15127934.post-10979876857712379442014-09-02T13:47:00.002-05:002014-09-02T13:47:53.363-05:00Sometimes people send me sermons. <div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<i>My response to a sermon a friend asked me to listen to - it can be <a href="https://itunes.apple.com/podcast/chase-oaks-church/id263392427">found here</a></i></div>
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<i>Sermon from 5/18/14 at Chase Oaks Church.<br /><br />I sent my notes to the preacher, <a href="http://www.chaseoaks.org/about-us/staff/">Jeff Jones</a>, his personal assistant said he would be responding shortly but he never did.<br /><br />My friend said my notes made her think, I asked her about talking to her preacher about a few things out of curiosity. She said although she had been attending there for five years she had never actually met or talked to the guy. Interesting.<br /><br />I don't think you need to listen to the sermon necessarily to read the notes but you can if you would like to:</i><br /><br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This will be sort of stream of consciousness from notes I took
as I listened to the sermon, "Boycott the boycotts". I might use the
language of speaking for all non-believers when I don't, just like I know the
preacher does not speak for all Christians. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Starts with comparing the church's outlook to DNA. Its
interesting to me that religion tries more and more to relate to science. One
can respect science and be religious, but any effort to make religion seem
scientific when it has no regard for evidence makes me suspect. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"We all have tricky relationships'…. Yes part of the
human condition <span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span>
</div>
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<br /></div>
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Breakdown of Christianity vs. culture… </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is where it kind of lost me logically. It’s a false
dichotomy, an "us vs. them",
in-group/out-group thing that is frustrating about religion to begin
with. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And it avoids the issue that within the faith that dichotomy
exists on its own. Culture is ALL of us in the community, Christians contribute
both good and bad to the culture as much if not more so than non-Christians.
Especially given the fact that Christians whether they feel marginalized or not,
ARE the majority. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"the people of this culture think differently from the
bible"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
GOOD. One does need
to ask the difficult question: is the bible even worth following? It espouses
genocide, infanticide, rape, murder and slavery. The atonement of Jesus
bypasses the question of could a loving parent deity not just forgive? why not?
Why demand a blood sacrifice? Many non theists today are not unfamiliar with
the bible. They don't abandon it to sin, they looked at it, examined it closely
and reject it due to its own lack of merit. Christians don't need to bear a
burden of exposing us to the bible. The claims of Christianity are already
accessible. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Scientifically, markers of well-being improve the less
religious a society is. <br />
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Then there were questions raised in the sermon about the Christian
influence and does it cause the desired influence or more backlash. Then the
scriptures were gone to specifically in Corinthians. Detailed description of <st1:place w:st="on">Corinth</st1:place> and comparisons to
Vegas, etc. Which I had many head scratching moments of wondering where the
evidence for all these claims were. Do we have any historical evidence for this
information of <st1:place w:st="on">Corinth</st1:place>
outside of the bible itself?.. but laying the lack of back up details to the
back burner …<br />
- lets move on to the topic. I'll paraphrase but the general idea I got was
that this chapter sets up the premise that it is ok to judge and rebuke fellow Christ
followers for their sins but the church does not have that jurisdiction outside
of the church. <br />
<br />
Then the sermon took a dark turn for me in the details of how to rebuke fellow
church goers "get in their way" "get them off the path" (on the path
to sin) We may reject you from the fellowship because that IS biblical..
because we love you and don't want you on that path. It felt like a kind way of
thought policing the congregation, sic them on each other. I’m sorry but that
would keep me out of a congregation even IF I had belief. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mSmCveUyTWk/VAYJVYklvRI/AAAAAAAAIjQ/HnhmmGZz4zs/s1600/boghossian.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mSmCveUyTWk/VAYJVYklvRI/AAAAAAAAIjQ/HnhmmGZz4zs/s1600/boghossian.jpg" height="224" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then my notes go on… I jotted down 'individual is king', 'Christ
followers are family of god' - 'different standard', my memory is fuzzy but I
took some umbrage at this false dichotomy as well. <br />
<br />
Of all the "family" references I think it overlooked that many people
that consider themselves humanists do look at the entire global community as
family. The human family, all with shared trials and issues. In fact many
humanists like myself are absolutely appalled at all the social injustices that
continues everywhere. The overhead at churches alone could feed so many
starving children, help end child pornography, etc. Now I don't want to create
my own illogical comparison. Churches do offer community support and help with
social causes and freethinking groups have overhead as well. It just seemed to
me there were a lot of made up problems in this sermon that aren't even on the
docket of the worlds most pressing problems. First world Christian problems if
I may borrow a popular phrase. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then from this point it was, if I could so crassly sum up:
Be nice to the world because people are starting to think we are jerks. Its not
our job to picket… side story about gay week at Disney, which I think if I had
been a gay member of the congregation would have made me very uncomfortable, While
there was no degrading of gay people there was an air of "they are the
out-group" to that example. And it was noble of Disney to treat them as
guests. Which, while that is absolutely true. We need to move on from that even
being a conversation. Gay people are <i>just
people</i>. Plain and simple, they don’t need anyone's ire or noble "I'm
pointing out that we aren't pointing you out because we want to be good Christians"
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then admonitions to engage culture vs. fighting the culture.
Increase your opportunities to have influence. Life is better when you follow
what god has approved (ignoring for a moment that even across Christianity that
can't be agreed on), Infiltrate and influence.. live so that people want to
know where your peace comes from so they ask what your reason for hope is. <br />
<br />
This is where I have a few things to say about that:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1. Christians already have vast influence in culture,
schools, politics, and the market. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2. You put a lot of pressure on your congregants to exude
happiness at all times, they have been challenged to represent Christianity
with their glowing stories so that others will see their reasons for hope.
There were people listening with very real problems and probably some with
depression or other mental illnesses. They don't need the pressure of being the
poster child for Christianity. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
3. There is also the connotation that non-believers,
atheists like myself don't have hope. We can, and <b><i>do</i></b> live lives of
happiness, our countenance can also be inspiring to others and people can be
influenced with our happiness and love even when our basis for that is not
rooted in Christianity (or any faith) for that matter. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
4. Many Christians speak openly about their faith ad
nauseam. It might not be adding to the goal Christians have. Many of the people
that are leaving religion (that number is rapidly growing) are asking very deep, very probing questions.
Trite pronouncements of faith and hope and love is not moving the conversation
forward. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
SO in short, I am very pleased with the concept of showing
love more than judgment. Those nuggets I was impressed with but overall I think
there was a lack of understanding for the group in which you labeled 'culture'
and excluded yourself from being a part of.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It might come as a surprise but to some degree Christians
like Westboro Baptists are considered (while completely vile) more
intellectually honest. They unabashedly take the Bible at its face value,
Christians that move the goalposts, claim truth but speak in vagueness confuse
me more. Address us <i>all</i> as the humans that we are, address your religion with better
evidence and that will gain more influence for those not engaging with
Christianity anymore. <br />
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
let me know where I was off base. <br /><br />Mr Jones talking to the insiders<a href="http://www.dts.edu/media/play/facing-criticism-jeff-jones/">, here.</a> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
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<br /></div>
Janiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08455764039212519400noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15127934.post-69030959716657287902014-08-25T16:02:00.001-05:002014-08-25T16:02:30.857-05:00Back to school 2014<br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-EkQo3ivk084/U_ukTOE1RKI/AAAAAAAAIhw/chM0K4ORe3s/s640/blogger-image-1928816322.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-EkQo3ivk084/U_ukTOE1RKI/AAAAAAAAIhw/chM0K4ORe3s/s640/blogger-image-1928816322.jpg"></a></div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-L9pa73lDDDc/U_ukQIbw0KI/AAAAAAAAIhY/Am6mCaD7ZVE/s640/blogger-image-1612867608.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-L9pa73lDDDc/U_ukQIbw0KI/AAAAAAAAIhY/Am6mCaD7ZVE/s640/blogger-image-1612867608.jpg"></a></div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-YHE1MwTRt0g/U_ukPMDiqnI/AAAAAAAAIhQ/xcpqxT3Zjmk/s640/blogger-image--895934042.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-YHE1MwTRt0g/U_ukPMDiqnI/AAAAAAAAIhQ/xcpqxT3Zjmk/s640/blogger-image--895934042.jpg"></a></div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-99ryyrZHU7o/U_ukU6m0fWI/AAAAAAAAIiA/Xe-YXdpci5Y/s640/blogger-image--601489037.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-99ryyrZHU7o/U_ukU6m0fWI/AAAAAAAAIiA/Xe-YXdpci5Y/s640/blogger-image--601489037.jpg"></a></div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-GdpaOFG2FSQ/U_ukWEtSgUI/AAAAAAAAIiI/xxNikQlI4nk/s640/blogger-image-430487354.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-GdpaOFG2FSQ/U_ukWEtSgUI/AAAAAAAAIiI/xxNikQlI4nk/s640/blogger-image-430487354.jpg"></a></div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-vZkMkFVVBlY/U_ukReW1b6I/AAAAAAAAIhg/WRsBR1Ey-tI/s640/blogger-image-189320950.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-vZkMkFVVBlY/U_ukReW1b6I/AAAAAAAAIhg/WRsBR1Ey-tI/s640/blogger-image-189320950.jpg"></a></div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-dSg2Er_W7F4/U_ukXSk0klI/AAAAAAAAIiQ/FZ9lsFk3l2A/s640/blogger-image-1619022690.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-dSg2Er_W7F4/U_ukXSk0klI/AAAAAAAAIiQ/FZ9lsFk3l2A/s640/blogger-image-1619022690.jpg"></a></div>Back to school cookies tradition continues: <br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-0nSiKIcu49s/U_ukYMUBkoI/AAAAAAAAIiY/Mm8Y20552WY/s640/blogger-image-1730632699.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-0nSiKIcu49s/U_ukYMUBkoI/AAAAAAAAIiY/Mm8Y20552WY/s640/blogger-image-1730632699.jpg"></a></div>Vanilla sandwich cookies for Maiya<br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-P4DQwwSQRmg/U_ukSEByePI/AAAAAAAAIho/FTC1k5fVcnY/s640/blogger-image-1613100898.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-P4DQwwSQRmg/U_ukSEByePI/AAAAAAAAIho/FTC1k5fVcnY/s640/blogger-image-1613100898.jpg"></a></div>Peanut butter for Ben<br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-Yr0r6jVyRVk/U_ukT3MTnEI/AAAAAAAAIh4/mA8fZrZeaNI/s640/blogger-image-94919126.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-Yr0r6jVyRVk/U_ukT3MTnEI/AAAAAAAAIh4/mA8fZrZeaNI/s640/blogger-image-94919126.jpg"></a></div>Brownies for Cora <br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-8k2_DDC75Iw/U_ukZAb7CDI/AAAAAAAAIig/rea_VfyBkk8/s640/blogger-image--463265723.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-8k2_DDC75Iw/U_ukZAb7CDI/AAAAAAAAIig/rea_VfyBkk8/s640/blogger-image--463265723.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Popcorn cookies for Ella </div>Janiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08455764039212519400noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15127934.post-49036051077699350642014-07-28T23:41:00.001-05:002014-07-28T23:41:57.961-05:00Questioning Mormonism?<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-QM3CDAZv1WY/U9cmE5BBLjI/AAAAAAAAIgY/zhE24weP65w/s640/blogger-image-977192603.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><p style="margin: 0px; font-size: 12px; font-family: Helvetica;">Shout out to anyone in the Dallas Fort Worth area, join us on Facebook or meetup at DAMIT "Dallas area Mormons in transition" </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-size: 12px; font-family: Helvetica;">We are having some fantastic Family home evenings and enrichment nights ;) please spread the word to anyone who could use the local support. </p></div><img border="0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-QM3CDAZv1WY/U9cmE5BBLjI/AAAAAAAAIgY/zhE24weP65w/s640/blogger-image-977192603.jpg"></div>Janiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08455764039212519400noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15127934.post-44422696909491350142014-07-09T09:38:00.000-05:002014-07-09T10:29:48.741-05:00Questions atheists can't truly answer... Ok I'll bite.<div style="background: white; line-height: 15.75pt; margin-bottom: 15.75pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Some Questions Atheist Cannot Truly and
Honestly REALLY Answer! Which leads to some interesting conclusions…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 15.75pt; margin: 0in 0in 15.75pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 15.75pt; margin: 0in 0in 15.75pt;">
<span style="color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"><a href="http://todaychristian.net/10-questions-every-atheist/">from here</a><br /><br /><b>1. How
Did You Become an Atheist?</b></span><span style="color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 15.75pt; margin: 0in 0in 15.75pt;">
<span style="color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"> In the very
unsettling process of leaving the religion I was raised in and the subsequent
sadness I set out to learn logical fallacies, biases and the method to
determining truth not based on feelings. It lead me to skepticism and I applied
it to all religions the same way I did to my own. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 15.75pt; margin: 0in 0in 15.75pt;">
<b><span style="color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="true" allowtransparency="true" frameborder="0" height="90" hspace="0" id="aswift_2" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" name="aswift_2" scrolling="no" style="left: 0px; max-width: 100%; position: absolute; top: 0px;" vspace="0" width="728">
</iframe>
2. What happens when we die?</span></b><span style="color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 15.75pt; margin: 0in 0in 15.75pt;">
<span style="color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">I can hope that a lot
of things happen but the only credible evidence there is, is that the matter
that is "us" becomes some other part of nature. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 15.75pt; margin: 0in 0in 15.75pt;">
<b><span style="color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">3. What
if you’re wrong? And there is a Heaven? And there is a HELL! <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 15.75pt; margin-bottom: 15.75pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">I would hope
"they" or him or her would judge me based on my actions and not my
beliefs. Infinite reward or punishment for finite actions is illogical. If that
is how the afterlife works it is not worth my mental energy and I will do what
I do anyway and enjoy the time I have. </span><span style="color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<h1 style="background: white; line-height: 13.5pt; margin-bottom: 11.25pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">“Live
a good life. If there are gods and they are just, then they will not care how
devout you have been, but will welcome you based on the virtues you have lived
by. If there are gods, but unjust, then you should not want to worship them. If
there are no gods, then you will be gone, but will have lived a noble life that
will live on in the memories of your loved ones.”<br />
<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">―</span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #181818; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5158478.Anonymous"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #666600; font-family: Georgia;">Anonymous</span></a></span><span style="color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></h1>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 15.75pt; margin: 0in 0in 15.75pt;">
<b><span style="color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">4. Without
God, where do you get your morality from?</span></b><span style="color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 15.75pt; margin: 0in 0in 15.75pt;">
<span style="color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"> The same place
you do. Most religious folks I know do not consult their sacred text for every
moral decision. Morality to me is a combination of treating others the way I
want to be treated. Avoiding harm to others and myself and animals and nature.
And asking myself if what I do is something EVERYONE else did, would this world
be better or worse off? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 15.75pt; margin: 0in 0in 15.75pt;">
<b><span style="color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">5. If
there is no God, can we do what we want? Are we free to murder and rape? While
good deeds are unrewarded?<br />
<br />
</span></b><span style="color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Even if there is a god you can do what you want.
Believers and non believers murder and rape. Fair secular justice is all we can
aim for. Christian believers think those people are worthy of forgiveness
solely for believing in Jesus. </span><span style="color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 15.75pt; margin: 0in 0in 15.75pt;">
<span style="color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"> </span><b style="line-height: 15.75pt;"><span style="color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">6. If
there is no god, how does your life have any meaning?</span></b></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 15.75pt; margin: 0in 0in 15.75pt;">
<span style="color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"> It has meaning
because I give it meaning. I feel meaning and love and accomplishment and enjoy
the experiences therein. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 15.75pt; margin: 0in 0in 15.75pt;">
<b><span style="color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">7. Where
did the universe come from?</span></b><span style="color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 15.75pt; margin: 0in 0in 15.75pt;">
<span style="color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"> We don't know.
But believing god only moves that back one square. Where does god come from?<br />
We learn more about the Big Bang and the Cosmos everyday. I am open to learning
more about all of that. Religion? not so much. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 15.75pt; margin: 0in 0in 15.75pt;">
<b><span style="color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">8. What
about miracles? What all the people who claim to have a connection with Jesus?
What about those who claim to have seen saints or angels?</span></b><span style="color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 15.75pt; margin: 0in 0in 15.75pt;">
<span style="color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Bias, delusion,
groupthink, confusion, motivated reasoning, false memories, etc. This does not further the religious
person's cause because for every person who has had a personal experience
justifying their belief there is probably someone else who also had an
experience that directly contradicts that. Mormonism (modern
prophet) Islam (no prophets after Mohammad) Can not both be true. But both
sides have miracles as their claim. <br />
<br />
</span><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #37404e; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 10.5pt;">"Miracles are culturally accepted false beliefs."</span><span style="color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 15.75pt; margin: 0in 0in 15.75pt;">
<b><span style="color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">9. What’s
your view of Dawkins, Hitchens and Harris?</span></b><span style="color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 15.75pt; margin: 0in 0in 15.75pt;">
<span style="color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Not relevant to the
issue. <br />
<br />Dawkins is an expert on evolutionary biology. I learned a lot from the
"Selfish Gene" <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 15.75pt; margin-bottom: 15.75pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">Hitchens - profound speaker especially in
debate format. <br />
<br />
Harris- fascinating information from his perspective on neurology. His book "Free Will" made me a more compassionate person. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;">10. If
there is no God, then why does every society have a religion?<br />
</span></b><span style="color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><br />
We have evolved to patternistic thinking. We look for patterns even when they don't
exist, our existential fears are comforted by the notion of a god so we look
for notions of a deity to self soothe. Culturally we have also done this to solidify
the group. It is pervasive and we indoctrinate our children to it before they
even question. Its hard to go against that, so many don't even try, even though I would
hazard to guess most harbor doubts. </span><span style="color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Janiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08455764039212519400noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15127934.post-29191427456410924412014-06-30T17:41:00.000-05:002014-06-30T17:55:06.956-05:00Strengthen home and family? A ranty post with all the feels today.<br />
<br />
This is a perfect storm of emotions. The final crack of the whip is still sounding through the air on the excommunication of Kate Kelly from Ordain Women. I listened to<a href="http://mormonexpression.com/2014/06/30/episode-260-mormon-privilege-in-utah/"> this podcast</a> this morning and while I did not have a visceral reaction to her excommunication other than "how very very stupid of the church to do that" I was overcome with emotion listening to others describe the emotional violent nature of the church to women and questioners.<br />
<br />
Then I am entangled in my own career/motherhood/'what the hell am I anymore' angst. I started last fall making personal goals to return to work and Occupational Therapy specifically. That led to continuing education, shadowing hours and crossing my t's and dotting my i's. I was done with national certification and Texas had received everything needed to process my state license. I reached out through networking for job prospects and got a JOB!! I was floored. Things were looking up. They were so excited for me to start I was calling the OT board daily and on Monday of last week a slightly confused but kind gentleman gave me my license number over the phone. I was so excited!! And set to start working. <br />
<br />
Two days later someone else called to take my license away.<br />
<br />
In Texas you can only procure a license one of two ways by endorsement (meaning you are currently licensed in another state) or by having recently taken the examination. The person who gave me my number over the phone was not supposed to have done that. I am back to square one it seems. I have passed on the job for now. I have also spent several days sulking. Which hasn't made for a fun summer for the kids.<br />
<br />
I think its made all these frustrations bubble to the surface that I usually keep tamped down with moderate success. So I need to talk again ...<br />
<br />
YES AGAIN about the emotions I've been working through leaving religion behind.<br />
<br />
Many people who come in contact with the sticky problems of truth claims in the church decide to stay for reasons besides the traditional testimony reasons. The community, the culture, avoidance of ruined relationships, etc. I get that, I do. But the one I don't get anymore even though for a brief time period I said it myself: "I'm staying for the sake of my children"<br />
<br />
I want to sit and chat (sincerely) with every church member staying for their kids. I'm not bullshitting at all I'd talk to them all if I could.<br />
<br />
<br />
The church is preparing kids for a world that doesn't exist really. Girls will grow up with no limitations anywhere besides the church for having a vagina instead of a penis. Personal Progress that seems more about preparing them for "home and family" than higher education and upward mobility in the world is not really preparation.<br />
<br />
No one with friends and colleagues that are LGBT and can get to know them can continue to respect the church's position. Each time in history where the church meets up to social causes the church has been wrong and takes far too long to come around.<br />
<br />
So here I sit.<br />
<br />
I LOVE MY KIDS to freaking bits. They are hands down the best thing I got from being a Mormon woman. I was sort of self righteous about my open womb for Jesus on this very blog (I leave that up for humility's sake)<br />
But now I am struggling to return to work. The license department tsk-tsking me that I didn't maintain my license. Saying "I prayed about it and felt I shouldn't" doesn't mean shit to them.<br />
We gave over $70,000 to the church yet we have no retirement and STILL will be paying our own student loans when our children start college.<br />
With six kids, our groceries rival our mortgage and our kids are only going to camp this year because of generous donations from the freethought community. Activities/extracurricular things for six are not really an option. I am floored by what our gas costs will be to go see family in a week - why? BECAUSE WE HAVE TO DRIVE A BUS.<br />
<br />
The church prepared me for what I feel like now is a untenable situation that is not conducive to mental well being.<br />
<br />
I filled two grocery carts to the brim today, I couldn't be overly concerned with organic or even healthy because it was more like "how can we make this money work for 3 meals a day for 8". Ella daydreamed outloud about being a lawyer and I thought to myself a few years ago I would have made some statement about balancing that with motherhood and today thought SCREW THAT.<br />
<br />
instead said "that is an absolutely valid plan Ella." There is nothing stopping you.<br />
<br />
I'm not raising my kids under any organization that thinks they know what god wants you to do and that depends on your genitalia.<br />
<br />
My path is a bit set for me now, we will figure it out. I'll keep making phone calls and making the decisions that get me to a career of some type. I have skills man, and damn it people like me.<br />
We will have a happy loud home with bologna sandwiches instead of organic smoothies. I'm so grateful that Kyle works so hard for his family. Others have it much harder than us.<br />
<br />
We will do great. But my girls won't be doing personal progress that indoctrinates them into what it means to be a "daughter of heavenly father" They will get to make their own goals. I'm not doing that for them. And I'm sure as hell not letting a church do it for them either.<br />
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<br />Janiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08455764039212519400noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15127934.post-56239411865489152872014-06-12T13:22:00.000-05:002014-06-12T13:23:31.242-05:00My Book of Mormon <a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-m73B4RvC_7I/U5nvhXb7yBI/AAAAAAAAIds/Ru6BC2XSN04/s1600/bom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-m73B4RvC_7I/U5nvhXb7yBI/AAAAAAAAIds/Ru6BC2XSN04/s1600/bom.jpg" height="89" width="320" /></a>Still an admitted podcast addict here, the line up changes over time and I move with the topics that interest me. I have slowly moved away from Mormon podcasts. Except when this one came across my field of view the idea made me laugh. An non-believer completely unfamiliar with the LDS church is reading the Book of Mormon, cover to cover stopping to add his impressions along the way.<br />
<br />
So many cling to it (I did) giving it merit that if read with any degree of critical thinking is not really merited. At its core the Book of Mormon is racist. Native Americans are dark because of a curse.<br />
<br />
Ancient Isrealites came across the ocean and had epic battles of thousands to millions of people with steel swords. Oh and horses, and elephants.... I don't know that it can be held up at all without severe cherry picking.<br />
<br />
With some twitter exchanges with David and a few emails later, I was interviewed.<br />
<br />
I think I deserve a cookie for condensing my 'story' into under 2 minutes.<br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://mybookofmormonpodcast.com/2014/06/12/episode-16-mymo-special/"><br /></a></span></b>
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://mybookofmormonpodcast.com/2014/06/12/episode-16-mymo-special/">My Book of Mormon Podcast, Episode 16 </a></span></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b>
<br />
<br />Janiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08455764039212519400noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15127934.post-29378784003171352842014-05-23T14:19:00.003-05:002014-05-23T14:19:55.033-05:00Benjamin at this moment. Benjamin (or fine.. Ben) at this moment has all grades above an 85, he is well liked by his teachers and I am complemented often on what a good kid he is. Next year: HIGH SCHOOL!! He got his very own computer for his birthday and tomorrow morning he reports to his very first job. Here you can start working at 14.<br />
I can't believe how fast this is going. We are so proud of him. He wrote this acrostic for his leadership class and his teacher sent me an email saying how impressed he was by it:<br />
<br />
E ... Embrace Challenges with the strength and courage of a bull.<br />
A... Accept punishments and accusations with firm responsibility.<br />
G... "Gratitude is the fairest blossom which springs from the soul." Henry Ward Beecher<br />
L... Lie if you want to be lied to, if not speak with truth and honesty.<br />
E...Every elder you see has gone through what you have so treat them with respect.<br />
<br />
L...Learning to stand and tolerate insults is like learning to act as an adult.<br />
E...Everyone can sacrifice time or money but only when you give something you love does it count.<br />
A..."As we express our gratitude, we must never forget that the highest appreciation is not to utter words, but to live by them." John F. Kennedy<br />
D... Drawing up the composure to not attack someone or do anything foolish is the ultimate tool.<br />
E...Empathy is not about forgiving someone but understanding them.<br />
R...Realizing when you have done something wrong and stood by your mistake is integrity.<br />
S...Serving someone is not loyalty, but believing and staying by them is.<br />
H...Having a good attitude is the key to having a good life.<br />
I...I would stand and persevere anything for family and good friends.<br />
P...Preparation is the key to success.<br />
<br />
What does Eagle Leadership mean to me? To me eagle leadership means to be yourself while being the best you can be to get people to appreciate you and live a good life.<br />
<br />
-Benjamin, May 2014<br />
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Janiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08455764039212519400noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15127934.post-85037349965011598472014-04-23T10:16:00.001-05:002014-04-23T10:16:25.758-05:00My Life in Words, Part Twelve: Gender roles<h3 style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">My mom's story continues, this is one of my favorite stories of my Me-maw lighting her brother on fire, The memoirs began <a href="http://rubyslippersx3.blogspot.com/2013/12/my-life-in-words-part-one-changes-in.html">here</a>, last installment <a href="http://rubyslippersx3.blogspot.com/2014/01/my-life-in-words-part-eleven-biscuits.html">here</a>. </span></h3>
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<span style="text-align: start; text-indent: 48px;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i>when Janie was born, so was her chore list</i></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The relationship between my
grandmother and her mother had a very
profound impact on her interactions with her daughters. My grandmother’s birth was seen as the birth
of household help for Lizzie. That is
not to say that she did not love her daughter, but in the early part of the
1900s, gender roles were very strictly defined.
If Lizzie had had only sons, she would have had many beds to make and
meals to cook. Sons would not have been
seen as a help for their mother unless it was doing physical labor such as
bringing in wood, or carrying heavy burdens.
They would not cook and they would not have made beds, washed clothes,
or ironed. It just was not done. But when Janie was born, so was her chore
list. </div>
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<br /></div>
<h3 style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i>She would seethe with anger</i></span></span></h3>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
She often told of cooking when she
had to stand on a stool to do so. That
act of standing on the stool at the stove was seen differently by me and my
grandmother. She saw it as a child being
forced to do something before she had the maturity to do it. She often told of making beds. And it was NOT the bed making we know today
of slipping on a fitted sheet, then snapping open a flat sheet so it could
float down to cover the bed. It was
anything but a happy activity. The
mattresses were made of feathers and any depression upon the bed meant that the
making of it had to be restarted. Janie
would complain about fighting to make the beds in the time frame her mother
expected – no, demanded. The only
problem with this time frame was that it occurred when her brothers, or “the
boys” as she called them, were out hunting.
They would then come home from the hunt, or from their morning masculine
chores, and do what came naturally – they flopped down on their beds. The feather beds. The beds that their slim sister had fought to
make perfect enough to avoid her mother’s wrath. She would seethe with anger. </div>
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<h3 style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>blazingly clear</i></span></h3>
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<br /></div>
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This went on for a few years until the time
came when the man courting her, my future grandfather, heard her complaints
about bed making. He merely thought of a
way to possibly change the behavior of
her brothers, by suggesting she take a cigarette paper, slipping it between a
brother’s toes, and setting fire to it.
Sounds good in theory and would probably even work in practice. If the brother in question, Audrey, weren’t
such a sound sleeper. So my
grandmother, being a young 15 year old who had never been out of 20 mile
radius, and in the absence of her suitor, made a decision without thinking it
through to its inevitable consequences.
She took newspapers, wrapped them around her brother’s foot, tied them
on, and then set the match to her innovation.
Yes, it woke him up. His screams
also woke the other brothers up. While
it made for a funny story years later, he ended up in a hospital, which was
indicative of a serious injury in the 1920s.
Later, I chose to believe that it wasn’t as serious as it was described
because as is the case in most stories passed down through the generations, the
acts become bigger, the results more astounding, and the aftereffects more unsettling. But there were no permanent injuries that I
am aware of and yes, my grandmother’s true feelings about bedmaking became
blazingly clear!</div>
Janiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08455764039212519400noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15127934.post-18727159909401730002014-04-08T09:26:00.001-05:002014-04-08T11:40:16.288-05:00Thanks Joseph Smith, Jr.<div class="MsoNormal">
We could do it</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If anyone could, It would be us</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I'd navigate my doubts</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And we would be an anomaly </div>
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<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then you said,
"This."</div>
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"This, I won't talk about with you"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That moment told me more than ALL the books</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was a vast library in one statement</div>
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<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If tables were turned</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I would have read every book for you</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Faced every question you asked, "This"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"This I will talk about with you"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You never yelled, never got mad</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You put it in a compartment and ignored</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Being ignored hurts more</div>
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Solitary amongst the noise </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It faded away, talking waned to typing</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
typing became mere texts</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You still can't talk</div>
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And I can no longer be ignored</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Water moved under the bridge</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A sea of change in droplets</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The new question now was - What hurts more? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Watching it rot? or Watching it burn?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you would only talk to me</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What scares you more- </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That I might be hateful? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Or that I might be logical?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The erosion of friendship painted a mural</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A game of percentages</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Day to day casual of the 75 percent yet never </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Authenticity for the whole</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I went all in</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And called the bluff</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Talk to me or I've had enough</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Again I heard that I had heard before</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"This"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"This, I won't talk about with you"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Out of self preservation </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I toe tagged the friendship</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Had I killed it or only admitted defeat?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Put out on the table</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What could not be said</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Can the devout walk with those who doubt?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Can the apostate and the believer</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
See eye to eye?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They can only try.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<br>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But us? <br>
We could not talk about it. </div>
Janiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08455764039212519400noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15127934.post-65397437001239753432014-03-13T01:56:00.000-05:002014-03-13T01:59:07.117-05:00Where in the world is Janie... <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
Oh blogging.... I can't give you up but I often let you down. My mom's story sits there looking at me. I wait for her next installment. She is quite a writer isn't she? I've had to assure people in my life that no she is not making it up. Those are real people, they are/were characters but very very real. I love how her words have brought the stories back to the surface and brought them to life. This past Sunday watching Cosmos -- The part where the ode to the written word of humans is highlighted I thought of my mom's story and was immensely grateful to her for putting it down for me and future family members to read.<br />
<br />
So this is my "one year post" Yes its about religion so for those who are sensitive to that topic you can tune out now.<br />
<br />
I can't believe I don't have a specific date for the 'last Sunday' we attended church. It was such a long time coming that when we actually stopped it was a non-event in a way. I have a few snapshots in my mind. Like the phone call about a ride to scouts. And me saying "We won't be doing that anymore." <br />
<br />
Like for this week/month?<br />
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</div>
<br />
"No like ... ever."<br />
<br />
A few last things related to callings dropped off and a few final emails. And then that was about it. The living room and bishop's office sit-downs had already occurred. <br />
<br />
In honor of this post, I even looked up my very first email to friends from the nebulous beginning of my questioning:<br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>So I am having a crisis of faith apparently and I think Kyle doesn't know what to say to me anymore - so I have been praying about it and I keep thinking I need to talk about it. Because 1) you are smarter and more learned in the scriptures than I am and 2) I don't think my mumblings would negatively affect your faith.</i></span></span><br />
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<i><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<i><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I've tried to kind of quell my own mumblings but my thoughts get circular on the subject and its frustrating. Then I thought I'd bring it up one day in person - but that may be awkward. So anyway - its so cliche too - A LDS woman struggling with the topic of polygamy - but I am struggling whether it is cliche or not.</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<i><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Specifically about <span class="il" style="background-color: #ffffcc;">Joseph</span> <span class="il" style="background-color: #ffffcc;">Smith</span>.</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<i><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And it all really boils down to the fact that my whole <span class="il" style="background-color: #ffffcc;">life</span> I did not know he had what? 30 <span class="il" style="background-color: #ffffcc;">wives</span> - to this day I still don't know details - and its very precarious to try to research it online - you know what kind of stuff is online - which I have avoided. </span></i></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<i><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">but through what I feel were honest sources (not anti) I did find more. And it was unsettling. Mainly this point - that he hid the marriage ( to a girl who was only 17) from Emma and quote :</span></i></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<i><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Book of Mormon witness, Oliver Cowdery, felt the relationship was something other than a marriage. He referred to it as “A dirty, nasty, filthy affair...”</span></i></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<i><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">those words keep echoing in my mind, </span></i></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<i><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So I tried to let it go and turn to the scriptures only and choked spiritually on section 132 like I have before.</span></i></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<i><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<i><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I feel like I could overcome the topic if it didn't seem hidden by the church. How many members today if asked would only know Emma as<span class="il" style="background-color: #ffffcc;">Joseph</span>'s wife - do these other women not deserve recognition - they bore him children... If it was my daughter I would not want her swept under the rug.</span></i></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<i><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<i><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I feel like I can't move away from this and when "<span class="il" style="background-color: #ffffcc;">Joseph</span> <span class="il" style="background-color: #ffffcc;">Smith</span>" is said in church I ache. I mean if a man did that in the ward right now he'd be ostracized.</span></i></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<i><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<i><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">on a similar vein - Men being able to be sealed after the death of their wife and women not being able to. I can't. get. over. it.</span></i></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<i><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<i><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">anyway. I am going to pray more and fast.</span></i></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">
<i><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
<i><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">I am sorry - feel free to think I am crazy and tell me to take it up with the bishop.</span> </span></i><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
Almost like the pain of childbirth, I can't really remember the pain I felt then. I know it was real and deep and agonizing. But I have none of that anymore.<br />
In fact I've come very close to not writing this "anniversary" post at all. But I'm going to do it anyway... what's that they say about an unexamined life...<br />
<br />
Questioning in earnest Jan of 2011, Open disaffection August 2012, Left sometime February 2013, Resignation (Names removed) June 2013<br />
<br />
So where am I now? where are we as a family?<br />
<br />
Me:<br />
<br />
To answer the oft asked question... so what do you believe now? I took that question seriously when posed to me and I started really diving into what it was that excited me. I have found such a renewed interest in science, specifically scientific skepticism. Found the old copy of Carl Sagan's Cosmos. Dove headfirst into some great science podcasts and discovered to my delight there is a vast network of modern skeptics that work to promote the beauty of science and the benefit of critical thinking.<br />
<br />
In the social adrift state after leaving the church my natural inclination was to turn to the many crunchy mom groups and natural birth community groups. I have found dear friends in those circles.<br />
<br />
Sadly though, I noticed the trend emerge that many things were still dogma based. A set of "rules" that were incontrovertibly true to many in these circles. Science denial often trumps when certain topics come up (vaccines, homeopathy, diet extremism, etc.) I felt I had in a sense jumped from the frying pan into the fire.<br />
<br />
One night at dinner with a very cool friend who felt somewhat abandoned by a birth network she was a part of for political reasons she said "I thought one day instead of making myself fit in a place, I'll make my own damn place." <br />
<br />
Brilliance! I was a person with a foot in two worlds. A new found skeptic thirsting for science but still the babywearing extended breastfeeder who had two babies born out of the hospital. So I worked to find my own place to fit. And I started the Crunchy Skeptics group on facebook. It has helped me come in contact with some absolutely marvelous people. I've made wonderful new friends and have some fantastic people as admins. Several scientists, doctors, nurses, journalists, midwives, birth professionals, and more offer support and advice in the group. We chew articles up and debate the real data. We know logical fallacies and point them out readily. I have found the convos there to be unparalleled to most online groups. I know its *just* facebook but its really been a fantastic way for me to focus my time and effort doing what I love: chatting.<br />
<br />
Us as a family:<br />
<br />
We are now attending Fellowship of Freethought (meets once a month). Always interesting topics and the kids learn some great things about science or the natural world in their classes.<br />
We are hoping to send the oldest three to Camp Quest this summer and Kyle and I will be volunteers.<br />
We are all super excited to be watching the remake of the Cosmos series. This fuels my Neil deGrasse Tyson fangirling which makes everyone only roll their eyes a little bit more at me.<br />
We are going camping with new friends again this weekend.<br />
Wow... Sundays actually spent relaxing. FOR. THE. WIN.<br />
<br />
<br />
Over the past couple of years I have felt some of the most difficult pain ever. Only rivaled by the pain of losing my father and brother, and it even encompassed that pain as well. I am so glad to be on the other side of it. I think of people like my husband, my mother, my sister, my mother in law, my older children, a few friends who have just listened to me over and over and over again through all of this. For new friends that I never would have met if not for my path of great change. I am a better person for having such open minded people in my life.<br />
<br />
I have also lost many friends. And I am close to the point of forgiveness now. At first I felt rejected, then I rejected the relationships myself. It just is what it is. Its almost like a color. I like the color of those friendships very much, I just don't know quite how to incorporate them into the decor of my life now. I hope some day I/we will figure that out.<br />
<br />
I was asked the other day if you could go back and not know what you know about the church would you?<br />
<br />
At first I would have said yes.<br />
<br />
Now? not only no. but hell no.<br />
<br />
My life is richer for all the things I've learned.<br />
<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tBWuaW-JFXc/UyFUW-ZjGPI/AAAAAAAAIYs/m_6K0FxfDAE/s1600/IMG_7524.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tBWuaW-JFXc/UyFUW-ZjGPI/AAAAAAAAIYs/m_6K0FxfDAE/s1600/IMG_7524.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
PS. In other news, Kyle's hair has gotten a lot longer and his vas deferens shorter ;) </div>
<br />Janiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08455764039212519400noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15127934.post-44955228711829193612014-01-21T15:09:00.001-06:002014-01-21T15:09:30.522-06:00My Life in Words, Part Eleven: Biscuits from scratch. <h4 style="text-align: center; text-indent: 48px;">
<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">My Mom's story continues, Part One <a href="http://rubyslippersx3.blogspot.com/2013/12/my-life-in-words-part-one-changes-in.html">here</a>, Part ten <a href="http://rubyslippersx3.blogspot.com/2014/01/my-life-in-words-part-ten-last-time-he.html">here</a>. </span></span></h4>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vB1_gzcJVII/Ut7hQuf_74I/AAAAAAAAIWM/ctVp5V48H44/s1600/photo+(17).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vB1_gzcJVII/Ut7hQuf_74I/AAAAAAAAIWM/ctVp5V48H44/s1600/photo+(17).JPG" height="320" width="265" /></a></div>
<div>
<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<h4 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: normal; text-align: start; text-indent: 48px;"><i><span style="font-size: large;">And as the day progressed, I learned how to drop the dumplings into the chicken broth, how to fry a chicken, and how to make biscuits from scratch.</span></i></span><span style="font-weight: normal; text-align: start; text-indent: 48px;"> </span></h4>
<div>
<span style="font-weight: normal; text-align: start; text-indent: 48px;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-weight: normal; text-align: start; text-indent: 48px;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Lizzie, on the other hand, was a
strong woman who faced the world unflinchingly.
Kind was not a word used to describe her. I never saw the mean side, but I have heard
that others did. She was less than soft
spoken when it came to her children’s spouses.
But her opinions also changed. If
she didn’t like you on one visit, she may love you on the next. She didn’t care about your opinions of what
she did. I only knew that she loved
me. She had patience that was in direct
contradiction to her reputation. She
allowed me to have so many experiences that I wouldn’t have had if I had spent
all my time in the suburbs. Instead, I
know what it is like to walk out to the chicken coop with an apron on to hold
the eggs that you were going to steal from the hens. I thought she was magic because she could
walk through the chicken yard without looking at her footsteps, unworried about
all the chicken poop she was trudging through.
It was a long while before I realized that she changed her shoes before going
inside! I was too busy delicately
holding eggs in the cradle of a cotton apron, dodging poop, and eyeing hens
wanting to attack those responsible for making off with their eggs. After harvesting the eggs, it was time for
breakfast. I was the assistant cook,
which meant that I stood on a stool at the stove and assisted. I learned how to flip an egg so that it was
over easy. I learned how to make toast
when there is no toaster. And as the day
progressed, I learned how to drop the dumplings into the chicken broth, how to
fry a chicken, and how to make biscuits from scratch. I would doubt that many of today's foodies
would be able to define a biscuit board, much less be able to point one
out. I’m proud to say that Lizzie’s
biscuit board has stayed in our family, finding a home with her great great
granddaughter.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-djbbu0VkRqY/Ut7hWGDNPuI/AAAAAAAAIWU/d9PrlfM0Vrk/s1600/breadboard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-djbbu0VkRqY/Ut7hWGDNPuI/AAAAAAAAIWU/d9PrlfM0Vrk/s1600/breadboard.jpg" height="175" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The story of Lizzie and Ben is
another story, and would have been better told by one of their children, but
that opportunity has passed. They had
seven children. Three sons were born
first, and I am sure they were despairing of having a daughter. Audrey came first around 1912. Then <st1:city w:st="on">Raleigh</st1:city>
Pat in 1914, and Harold Benjamin in 1916.
Finally in 1918, the daughter was born who would one day become my
grandmother, my beloved Me-Maw. They named
her Janie Orean Watters and she was born on September 1, 1918. Four years later, Frank Benjamin was born,
and then there was a long spell without the birth of a baby. Finally Mary Winona came along when Frank was
eight, and Margie Faye followed two years later. That mean that Janie’s two sisters were 12
and 14 years younger than she, but they were close. In their adult years, Margie and Janie were
as inseparable as two women could be. I
doubt that three days went without a long distance phone call. As the years passed, the closeness of the
siblings waxed and waned. But I grew up
close to all my great aunts and uncles, and as it was with great grandparents,
my great aunts and uncles were truly more like aunts and uncles. Three of the siblings – Janie, Frank, and
Harold, lived in one block in the suburbs as I grew up. So for many of my formative years, those
uncles were very real masculine role models when my grandfather was working
offshore for a good part of my
childhood. These uncles exhibited the
macho stuff – the camping, the boating, the horse riding, the hard
drinking. My grandfather was almost the
personal opposite. Never hunted, never drove a boat, and for sure never
drank. More about his horse riding to
come, as it plays a very real part in the beginning of my family.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
to be continued... </div>
Janiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08455764039212519400noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15127934.post-68028187013630925942014-01-12T01:54:00.000-06:002014-01-12T01:54:42.669-06:00My Life in Words, Part Ten: The last time he would smell fresh air. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
On Christmas Day, mom said "I wrote for you."</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
The story continues, Starting <a href="http://rubyslippersx3.blogspot.com/2013/12/my-life-in-words-part-one-changes-in.html">here</a>, Part nine <a href="http://rubyslippersx3.blogspot.com/2013/12/my-life-in-words-part-nine-i-got-to-see.html">here</a>. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kS7j4XNX4mo/UtJH_hoobGI/AAAAAAAAIVw/x48m53lX28U/s1600/ben.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kS7j4XNX4mo/UtJH_hoobGI/AAAAAAAAIVw/x48m53lX28U/s1600/ben.jpg" height="254" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
To say that I craved sleeping with
someone sounds so calm. Maybe I need all
caps in this case. I CRAVED SLEEPING
WITH SOMEONE. As a reminder, my
grandfather was gone most nights, as he worked out in the <st1:place w:st="on">Gulf
of Mexico</st1:place> on an oil rig. So
for most of my childhood, I lived in a
house of females. My grandmother, my
aunt, my mother, and me. When my mother
wasn’t available, I would sleep with someone else. No one turned me down – except for
Pa-Paw. When he would come home, he
wanted to sleep with his wife without a child between them. Took me years to understand that!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<h4 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-weight: normal; text-indent: 48px;">The people in my life were not dreamers, or artists, or poets.</span><span style="font-weight: normal; text-indent: 48px;"> </span><span style="font-weight: normal; text-indent: 48px;">They were workers.</span></i></span></h4>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-weight: normal; text-indent: 48px;"><br /></span></i></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-weight: normal; text-indent: 48px;"><br /></span></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Nope.. I didn’t wake up my mother for
my school preparations. That was
Me-Maw’s job. I am quite sure that many
princesses didn’t have it as good as I did growing up. By the time my eyes saw the sunlight of the
morning, everything that could be ready, was ready. My dress was laid out, my breakfast on the
table, my satchel by the front door.
Bookbags weren’t invented yet. I
had a little childlike briefcase with cheap plastic straps secured by cheap
metal buckles. I went through several
each school year because I tended to be rather rough on them. Breakfast was the breakfast most kids are
unaware of today, unless they go out to I-Hop for breakfast on special
occasions. There was meat (bacon or ham,
but most definitely pork), eggs, toast, jelly.
Sometimes it would be grits. But
none of that instant stuff – grits cooked on the stove where I would stand
transfixed watching them. I had a great
imagination and I saw them as lava, pulling up into big bubbles until they
would pop, sending little pieces of corn meal up inches into the air. I wouldn’t really see lava in real life until
I was in my late thirties on a trip to <st1:state w:st="on">Hawaii</st1:state>. And my thought was how much its thickness
resembled the grits of my childhood. I
didn’t share that with anyone, however.
I didn’t want to be seen as different.
The people in my life were not dreamers, or artists, or poets. They were workers. This is not to say that everyday workers are
not artists, it simply means that the mediums they work in are the consumables
of our lives. A farmer grows what he
considers to be a perfect squash, but he doesn’t indulge himself with idolizing
it or attributing praise to it. He
simply looks at it, thinks to himself how grand it is, then drops it into the
bushel with other squash to one day be fried up with butter and onions by
another artist whose work is admired by those who eat that perfect squash. Each artist in that cycle is anonymous to the
next, but it doesn’t make it any less beautiful
a process.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
My grandmother came from a long
line of farmers. She was the first
daughter in a family of four boys and two girls. For the majority of her life, she was the
only daughter. My great grandparents
were Ben and Lizzie Watters. In talking
about my life, I always think of it as a clock that is consistently one hour –
in my case, one generation – off. My
grandmother was my mother, my great grandmother was my grandmother, and that
leaves my mother as….. well, I really don’t have a good answer for that
one. The closest thing would be to say
that my mother was like a sister to me.
I said that to her once and she didn’t speak to me for a year. But that drama came many years later than the
point we are in this story. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<h4 style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-weight: normal; text-indent: 48px;">Neither of us imbued any deep philosophical meaning</span><span style="font-weight: normal; text-indent: 48px;"> </span><span style="font-weight: normal; text-indent: 48px;">into those conversations.</span><span style="font-weight: normal; text-indent: 48px;"> </span><span style="font-weight: normal; text-indent: 48px;">We were just friends.</span></i></h4>
<div>
<i><span style="font-weight: normal; text-indent: 48px;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div>
<i><span style="font-weight: normal; text-indent: 48px;"><br /></span></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Ben and Lizzie were definitely
farmers. One step above indentured
servants to be exact. They were share
croppers. While they did own some land
in “the bottom” as it was known, and made memories there, they generally made
money farming land belonging to someone else – someone richer. I never heard the words poor, or poverty,
or needy, or any other synonym we call it now.
They were just “plain folks” who got up each morning, gathered eggs,
tended fields, and raised children. By
the time I was old enough to start building my memories, their working farm
days were over. They had moved to “the
city.” And to call <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Springhill</st1:city>, <st1:state w:st="on">Louisiana</st1:state></st1:place>
the city was to acknowledge how small was the universe of Ben and Lizzie. It would be difficult to find two people more
diverse than this couple. While he was a
small man, standing only about 5’6’’, she was a tall woman, probably 5”
9”. My grandmother claimed an English
ancestry for her father, but he always looked to me like those described as
“black Irish” in that he had dark hair, blue eyes, and fair complexion. He was an oddity, that his hair never fully
turned gray, but kept its dark appearance even at his death in his mid
80s. Lizzie on the other hand, turned
gray very early in life, then when most others are turning gray her hair became
white. WHITE. Not grayish white, or silver, but white. It was beautiful, and she was known as a
beautiful woman. As expected, few
pictures remain of her, but those that do show a strikingly beautiful young
woman, and it is easy for me to romanticize her relationship with Ben. When they married, he was 32 and she was a
mere 16. At that early age, she was an
orphan. Her mother, my great great
grandmother was often called a “black widow”.
She died in her early 30s and left her fourth husband with a young
child. Lizzie’s father was a Newberry
and she had many cousins in the southern Arkansas/north <st1:state w:st="on">Louisiana</st1:state> area. Ben was known as an honest man and his
daughter, my grandmother described him in almost angelic terms, saying that he
was the kindest person she had ever known.
I can only say that he was kind and loving to me. He was the rare adult who treated me almost
as an equal. I spent much of my summers
as a young child with my great grandparents in Springhill where I was allowed
to do the things that short stories are made of. Paw-Paw Watters and I planted a field of
summer squash. We would walk every
afternoon to feed and walk Buck, his horse around. We fished.
And we talked. Long long walks
and long long talks. I wish I could say
that I remember those talks, but I think the beauty of them is that I
don’t. They were simply mundane
conversations that two friends may share.
Maybe it was the weather, maybe it was the crops. Neither of us imbued any deep philosophical meaning into those conversations. We were just friends. When I was eight-ish, he had a stroke. It was a terrifying time for me. I didn’t understand what a stroke meant. Didn’t know what it was. When I tried to ask, I was shushed and when I
wasn’t shushed, my Me-Maw would cry. I
learned not to ask, but went back to my tried and true routine of simply
listening for those snippets of information which I could piece together into
some fabric of understanding. What I
didn’t know at the time was that my life with my Paw Paw was forever
changed. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
No more walks. No more Buck.
No more talks. Just PawPaw in a
hospital bed in the middle bedroom. As
the days went into weeks, the weeks turned into months, then years. He laid in that bed for close to four years
until he died the summer of my twelfth year.
So now my memories are mostly of rubbing his feet with lotion, and
combing his hair, and singing to him at the request of Me-Maw. On one of our visits, she got him up and put
a robe over his pajamas. She walked him
out to the porch where he enjoyed his last visit outside. A dear neighbor, Lee Martin, came over to
visit with the family on the porch.
Pictures were taken. Many in the
family probably still have an enlargement of that picture in their home. I used
to look at it and wonder if he knew it was the last time he would smell fresh
air, see the sky, or visit with friends while sitting face to face with them. The rest of his days everything he saw, felt,
or sensed was from a prone position.
That makes me sad.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
Janiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08455764039212519400noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15127934.post-57240526825376508612013-12-31T17:30:00.000-06:002013-12-31T17:30:09.005-06:00My Life in Words, Part Nine: I got to see her transform<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
The final installment of my Mom's life story so far, Part Eight<a href="http://rubyslippersx3.blogspot.com/2013/12/my-life-in-words-part-eight-mama-was.html"> here</a>, the first part <a href="http://rubyslippersx3.blogspot.com/2013/12/my-life-in-words-part-one-changes-in.html">here</a>. </div>
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Whatever job my mother happened to
have at any given time, her days followed the same pattern. She worked during the daylight hours, and
came home in the afternoon, sometimes dusk.
That was when I got to see her transform. Most people transform into a homebody when
they return from their jobs. But not my
mother! It was a different kind of
transformation. It was taking off the
face that she had worn to work, and putting on a more glamorous nighttime
face. The blush was brighter, the
lipstick redder, and the eyes smokier.
Well, maybe I’m confusing the eyes with the smokiness of the small
bathroom while I sat on the toilet and watched her put on makeup. I was transfixed. My mom was quite an attractive woman. A natural redhead , she had a curvaceous body
that would have rivaled Marilyn Monroe’s.
Maybe having a baby at 17 had helped her mature earlier than most
adolescents. I didn’t understand, nor
think those thoughts. I was just torn in
half watching her get dressed and loving that time I could spend with her, but
knowing that the result of her preparations would be her leaving for the
evening, and she certainly wouldn’t be home before I was put to bed. The corollary to that was that she was never
the one to put me to bed. But I slept
with her. In a three bedroom house,
there was no room for two adult daughters and a young grandchild. By necessity I shared a room with my
mom. It created in me a need to sleep
with someone. I had to fight my urge to
have my own children sleep with me. I didn’t
wake up when my mother finally came home. But when my grandmother would come to
wake me up, she would put her finger to her lips, a silent signal for me to BE
silent. And I obeyed. Because I knew what it would be like if I
were to unintentionally wake my mother. </div>
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Janiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08455764039212519400noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15127934.post-17856765749214720202013-12-30T10:37:00.000-06:002013-12-30T10:37:58.212-06:00My Life in Words, Part Eight: Mama was a paradox<h4 style="text-align: center;">
<i>“Are you okay? Do you love me? Are you mad at me?” </i></h4>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>My mom</i></span></div>
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It was much later in my life before
I realized that my mom was a
weapon. She did quite a bit of
damage. Some was by her words, some by
her actions, and some by simple selfishness.
Mama was a paradox. While she
often gave lavish gifts, she was just as likely to push others aside to get her
own way. It was years before I realized
that she used things as anesthesia. She
could believe she was good – and she could make you believe she was good – if
she gave you a nice gift, or took you somewhere you wanted to go, or did
something you wanted to do. As long as
it cost her something. And that
something was always cash. Sacrifice
wasn’t her currency. It’s hard for me to
look back and try to understand why I didn’t see things accurately back
then. I imagine it was my childish
heart. A child always wants to believe
in love. Maybe we are even programmed
genetically, or instinctively, to believe that our mother is good, that our
mother loves us, and that our mother always has our best interest in the
forefront. I am not the only child to
grow up and learn in hindsight that that wasn’t true. But not knowing protected my heart and it
needed protecting in those days. I had
been given the heavy obligation of making too many people happy. If people were angry, if people were sad, it
had to be my fault. Why did no one try
to take that from me? Surely they
noticed. Surely to God they
noticed. The refrain that I repeated way
too often was, “Are you okay? Do you
love me? Are you mad at me?” Of course, there was usually a response to that
refrain. But it wasn’t from my mother,
the one I most wanted it to be from. Her
answer was too practical, too annoyed.
“I’m not mad. Quit asking me
that. You know I love you. I’m okay.”
Answers, but not the answers I wanted.
I wanted sweetness and caresses, and kisses that said I was the most
important thing in her life. But that
probably wouldn’t have worked. It is a
law of life that for words to be seen as sincere, they have to match the
actions of the speaker. And my mother’s
actions were far from saying, “You are the most important thing in my life.”</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">(Evelyn on the left)</span></div>
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I have to remember that my mother
had me as the result of an accident. I
wasn’t born the lovingly wished for offspring of a fresh young couple. I wasn’t the infant of an older couple who
had prayed for a baby for over a decade, perhaps. I was the result of two young kids fumbling
around in some furtive encounter when neither of them had any thought that a
life would start. Instead of joy at the realization that a baby was coming, I
am sure there was anger. If messages
cross that placental membrane as easily as nutrients do, then I am sure I was
bombarded with hate, rage, but mostly, fear.
When I realize that, it is easier to understand how quickly my mother
was able to slide her parental responsibilities off to my grandmother. Later in life, she tried to blame my
grandmother for “stealing” me. I presume
she meant stealing my affection. But
anyone with any sense knows that it would be very hard to kidnap a child’s
affection from a mother whose love was the most integral part of the child’s
life. I couldn’t have been very old
before even I realized that I was an afterthought. My mother was a working mother from my earliest memory. She worked as a waitress, then for a caterer,
and finally for most of my childhood she was a cashier for Winn-Dixie in our
neighborhood. </div>
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<br /></div>
<h4 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: normal;"><i><span style="font-size: large;">fire burns everything in its path, both good and bad</span></i></span></h4>
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I am sure that she was a
good worker. If my grandfather imparted
anything to the three women he raised it was to be a good employee. One of the worse things that could be said of
someone was that they were a lazy worker, or that they did not give an honest
day’s work for their honest day’s pay.
That lesson led each of us to work far beyond what was expected. We would arrive early and we would stay late,
as needed. We were a friend to all our
co-workers. However, in my mom’s case,
she was perhaps too friendly to some of her co-workers. The male ones, that is. I can’t remember a time in my life after
memories begin to stick, that my mother did not have a man in her life. And at least one memory remains from a time
when most children don’t have memories.
We had gone to her boss’s house for a holiday. I loved going there. He lived out near the <st1:place w:st="on">Mississippi
River</st1:place> levee, just as we did.
But his house was upriver from us, closer toward LaPlace and
Destrehan. And he had kids – lots of
kids. There is nothing an only child
likes more than visiting families who have lots of children. It’s like going to another country, or maybe
even another planet. Someplace so alien
that it was unimaginable that people lived like that. I wanted to go back, and maybe that is why
I was so excited when I figured out by
my grandmother’s phone conversation that she was talking to Mr. Bud’s
wife. But that same understanding of <i>who </i>was on the phone couldn’t fathom <i>what </i>was happening on the phone. But I knew enough to know my grandmother was
upset and my inner demons kicked in and I began to ask if she was mad at me and
whether she loved me. After her
reassurances, my little girl’s mind kicked back to that phone conversation and
I peppered her with questions, “Are we going to Mr. Bud’s house again? Can some
of his daughters come over to our house?”
The answer was no to all questions.
Had I been a little older, or perhaps a little more sophisticated, I
could have put together the understanding that Mr. Bud’s wife had gotten to the
bottom of my mom’s “friendship” with her boss.
I would have also known that the friendship, and my mom’s employment,
was over. And as surely as fire burns
everything in its path, both good and bad, my friendship with all those
children of one household was over as well.
I was way too little to understand everything about that whole debacle,
but I knew it caused a scream fest in our house when my grandfather got home but
that imaginary fire wasn’t done with its damage yet. My mom took off in the car without permission
and just like what would happen in the plot of a movie, she wrecked the car,
destroying it. When I got old enough to
realize what had really happened, I wondered if that fire of passion had
destroyed Mr. Bud’s marriage as well.
And I prayed it had not. I did
not want to feel that my mother was
responsible for all those little kids having to live apart from their
father. It was too sad for me to contemplate. </div>
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</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The story began <a href="http://rubyslippersx3.blogspot.com/2013/12/my-life-in-words-part-one-changes-in.html">here</a>, Part seven is <a href="http://rubyslippersx3.blogspot.com/2013/12/my-life-in-words-part-seven-ba-sister.html">here</a></div>
Janiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08455764039212519400noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15127934.post-29882554995757410822013-12-29T11:29:00.000-06:002013-12-29T11:29:26.980-06:00My Life in Words, Part Seven: Ba Sister got tired of it all<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>My Mom's life story continues, Part six <a href="http://rubyslippersx3.blogspot.com/2013/12/my-life-in-words-part-six-tomato-aspic.html">here</a>, It all started <a href="http://rubyslippersx3.blogspot.com/2013/12/my-life-in-words-part-one-changes-in.html">here</a>. </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>Sibling Rivalry</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>Me-Maw and her daughters: Evelyn and Beth </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">While there were only two girls in the family, they were not close. They were rivals for affection, rivals for compliments, and rivals for any good words which were to be spoken of them. From childhood, my aunt had been given a name by her older sister. She was called Bay Sister. Probably it was actually “Ba” Sister, meaning Baby Sister. But that was the name she carried until death. And I think she grew tired of being the baby sister who had to carry the older sister’s reputation on her back. When they left the house, it was the baby sister who was reminded to watch out for the older one. Because the older one, my mother, was a daredevil. She would do anything on a dare, from crossing a canal that runs through the urban areas of New Orleans, to jumping off a second story roof. She had a quick temper that matched the old wives tale of redheads being hotheads. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>She made a decision to get out</i></span></h3>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Mae Beth aka Bay Sister</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Ba Sister got tired of it all. She got tired of neighbors complaining. She got tired of family hysteria. She got tired of her mother making excuses for what Big Sister had done. She made a decision to get out, and to get out as quickly as she could. So she enrolled at Soule College, which was a business college and she excelled at everything young women are supposed to do well. She took Gregg Shorthand. She did bookkeeping (accounting was for the men). She typed close to 90 words per minute and her spelling was exceptional. She almost finished the complete program at Soule, but she was offered a job at Humble Oil, probably as a result of her father’s good reputation with the same company. So she made the calculated decision that what she had left to learn in her program was not worth the delay in the start of her career. At her age, she couldn’t yet realize how much she would grow to regret that decision. It was one of the few things in her life which she didn’t see to the end. But what she did do was take those first baby steps that would lead her to the rest of her life. She had no idea at the time what would come from the decision to take that job. It would truly be the yellow brick road taking her to her own wonderland, her own Oz.</span></div>
<h4>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div>
<i><div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">She was the New Woman. She would support herself, travel alone or with girlfriends, and rebel against every southern rule for women she had been taught.</span></i></div>
</i></h4>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">A new Beth. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Ba Sister’s first job for Humble Oil was in Grand Isle Louisiana. What a tiny dot on the map of Louisiana! It was barely even in Louisiana, but instead it was a collection of houses and offices built on pilings hanging on to the edge of the Gulf of Mexico. From a distance, it looked like a circus scene, with all the houses on stilts, and one would expect to see clowns emerge from them, also walking tall balancing on ten feet poles of wood. If you are not from Louisiana, or another town that lives on the edge of water that routinely rises without mercy, you wouldn’t be used to the stair climb you would make every morning as you reported to work. The “girls” in the steno pool would live together in what would appear to be a summer cottage to the uninitiated eye. They had a chance to see many men in Grand Isle. But what you really saw was the men arriving to work and then leaving work seven days later. Grand Isle was the hub of men who climbed aboard helicopters which flew them out to platforms which consisted of oil wells, a heliport, and living quarters. It was quite an unnatural situation. Instead of men climbing on the city bus after slogging through a hard day’s work, these workers would walk across a metal catwalk, looking down at water that may be 100 feet or more deep until they reached their living quarters, which was also the living quarters of 50 or more other men. While that job was an excellent training ground for a future executive assistant, it was far from excellent as a hunting ground for a husband. Of course, Ba Sister would have never been guilty of hunting for a husband. She was the New Woman. She would support herself, travel alone or with girlfriends, and rebel against every southern rule for women she had been taught.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">She didn’t feel the sand of Grand Isle, Louisiana between her toes for long. Her skills did not go unnoticed, and she was soon working in the Central Business District of New Orleans in the Humble Oil Building. Even there, everyone knew her father, Red Honeycutt. His was a hard reputation to ignore. From his first job of driving a truck, he soon became a roustabout, then a drill pusher on one of those dots in the Gulf of Mexico. It was the job of those men to pull oil from under the earth’s surface to sate the thirst of a growing America. His fellow employees respected and trusted him. Within a very few years he was an important member of the Employees Federation, the pre-union organization which worked with the management of the future Exxon. The election to President of the Federation was not a surprise to any who knew him. His honesty and integrity was known and respected by the rank and file, and even more amazingly, by management – even the highest level of management in the company. All this was to say that Red’s daughter didn’t go unnoticed by that same management. She spent enough time in the pool of young workers to make good friends. Earning good money for the first time in her life, she treated herself well. The first big purchase was a 1953 Chevy. It took her for weekend trips to places she had only heard about. She went away to visit the families of friends she met at work. But she also went to places her car could not take her. She was the first one in the extended families of her mother and her father who had ever left the country – on purpose. She had had uncles who had seen Europe, but that was on a trip paid for by everyone’s uncle – Sam.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The whole time Ba Sister was taking the world by storm (a little storm, but a storm nonetheless) the Big Sister, my mother , was attacking the world with her hammer. </span></div>
Janiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08455764039212519400noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15127934.post-22446893801713932522013-12-29T10:10:00.004-06:002013-12-29T11:08:58.629-06:00My Life in Words, Part Six: Tomato aspic, caviar and college? <h3 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>My mom's life story goes on, <a href="http://rubyslippersx3.blogspot.com/2013/12/my-life-in-words-part-five-words-i.html">Part Five here</a>. It all began <a href="http://rubyslippersx3.blogspot.com/2013/12/my-life-in-words-part-one-changes-in.html">here</a>. </i></span></h3>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My aunt lived in the house with my
grandparents, my mom and me until I was nearly eight years old. And even when she moved, she was a large part
of my rearing. She was the family member
who was committed to seeing that I grew up with class. Mae Beth, “good” Sister made it her job to take me to places
where the last thing in the world they would serve was anything with a gravy or
a black eyed pea. With her, I dined on
things like tomato aspic and caviar. We
went to Commander’s Palace and dined in the courtyard. We traveled away for the weekend to Gulf
Hills Dude Ranch on the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Mississippi</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Coast</st1:placetype></st1:place>. Every interaction she had with me was
designed to teach me that there was something beyond my southern upbringing. She was the first to talk to me of
colleges. Not just encouraging me to go
to college, but talking about <i>which</i>
college. She positively beamed when I
spoke of going to Sophie Newcomb, which was the women’s college associated with
<st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Tulane</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">University</st1:placetype></st1:place>. I, of course, was too young to know anything
about Newcomb, or admission requirements.
I just knew that it had a nice entry and it was in the Garden
District. My mind couldn’t grasp the
idea of actually going away to any college and living in a dorm. Didn’t know what a dorm was.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large; font-weight: normal; line-height: 18px; text-indent: 0px;"><i> she was very much past ready to move out and start her life. </i></span></h3>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">To understand my ignorance, you
would have to understand that of all my extended family on either side, only
one individual I knew had gone to college.
He was a much older cousin and he came to our house one Christmas with
three of his rowdy college friends. My
grandmother did what every aunt does for college boys – she cooked for
them. And what did they do for me? Broke one of my brand new toys. I had been given a pogo stick and a miniature
pinball game made out of plastic. Well,
one of the guys jumped up on the pogo stick and immediately jumped onto the
pinball machine. Which reacted by
breaking into a million pieces. At least
it felt like a million. To match the
million pieces my heart had broken into at the same time. I wanted to scream out in a rage, but I
didn’t. He was a GUEST. And even at my young age, I had learned that
one never ever made a GUEST feel anything but welcome.</span></div>
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I never quite understood
why my aunt didn’t go to college. She
was very smart. While the family was not
rich, I think that my grandfather would have found the money to help her go. Maybe it would have been to a state school,
and maybe she would have had to live at home while she attended, but she could
have gone. But instead, she knew that
the only way she would be able to move out of the house was to get a job. And she was very much past ready to move out
and start her life. </span></span><br />
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qtK1ac4blDU/UsBJe0YK-jI/AAAAAAAAIT4/sjxPL38u3IA/s1600/1-photo+4+(1).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="249" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qtK1ac4blDU/UsBJe0YK-jI/AAAAAAAAIT4/sjxPL38u3IA/s320/1-photo+4+(1).JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span>Janiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08455764039212519400noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15127934.post-72906188340151086252013-12-28T14:20:00.000-06:002013-12-28T14:43:29.219-06:00My Life in Words, Part Five: The words I never heard said were “eating disorder.”<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
My mom's life story continues, Part Four <a href="http://rubyslippersx3.blogspot.com/2013/12/my-life-in-words-part-four-she-went.html">here</a>, it all began<a href="http://rubyslippersx3.blogspot.com/2013/12/my-life-in-words-part-one-changes-in.html"> here</a>. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-DvoxhUlVuNs/Ur8w0y5nmVI/AAAAAAAAITM/OqU_Icr11XQ/s1600/photo+2+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-DvoxhUlVuNs/Ur8w0y5nmVI/AAAAAAAAITM/OqU_Icr11XQ/s320/photo+2+(2).JPG" width="296" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I would assume that we settled into
a few years of normalcy, or what we knew as normalcy. I was eager to learn. I knew which adult to go to when I wanted
something. Me-Maw was my source of all
things good to eat. Now, to most people
that sentence would end there. But like
most things in my existence, it didn’t end there. Let’s repeat the sentence above : Me-Maw was my source of all things good to
eat. Now, the corollary to that was that
I was the receptacle of all good things Me-Maw prepared to eat. Well, of course, the remainder of the family
ate her good food. The trick was that
SHE didn’t eat her good food. You see,
she had what was described as an “irritable colon”. That meant she didn’t eat anything. Well, most people would describe her diet as
not eating anything, but she did eat some things – just not very many
things. Let’s describe her diet, shall
we? For breakfast, my Me-Maw had a
delicious breakfast of a soft boiled egg, two pieces of dry toast, milk and
water. That was it. For lunch, she branched out to enjoy a jar of
strained carrot baby food, two pieces of that same dry toast, and milk. And for dinner, she had to limit those
eggs. Heaven forbid if she ate too many
egg yolks. Dinner would consist of egg
whites, dry toast, and milk. Oh, and
water. That was it. From the time I was old enough to notice someone’s food and how it was different from
my own, it was all I saw my grandmother eat.
I wish I could say that it was for a limited time, but the reality is
that that same diet was in effect for over 50 years. Over the years she added a teaspoon of apple
jelly for breakfast, and strained peas baby food for lunch, but basically the
menu items didn’t change. Oh, she
continued to feed her family every southern delicacy known to man. But she didn’t let any of it touch her lips. As I grew, I begged. I cajoled.
I threatened. All because I
wanted to see her eat something. But she
never wavered. People admired her for
her will power. People felt sorry for
her because of what she had to endure.
People whispered about how serious her pain must have been to cause her
to stick to such limited offerings. The
words I never heard said were “eating disorder.” Yet those were the two words that I diagnosed
once I was an adult and realized what an eating disorder was. She used her battle with food to control her
family, and even more importantly, to control her husband. She couldn’t go out to eat with that diet. We couldn’t go on a long vacation because of
her diet. Of course, some arrangements
ended up being made, but those arrangements never included her eating something
that wasn’t on THE LIST. </div>
<h3>
<i><b><br /></b></i></h3>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-size: small; text-indent: 48px;">I think her food was the ribbon that tied the family together.</span><span style="font-size: small; text-indent: 48px;"> </span></i></h3>
<div>
<i><span style="font-size: small; text-indent: 48px;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div>
<i><span style="font-size: small; text-indent: 48px;"><br /></span></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
As much as food was my
grandmother’s enemy, she did everything she could to make it my friend. Are you sad?
Let’s see what we have to eat. Do you feel bad? You need some grits. You can’t sleep? I think you need a piece of pie cause you are
probably hungry. She was the world’s
biggest pusher of southern comfort foods.
Given the fact that she never tasted what she was cooking, she was
certainly known as a great cook. I grew
up with specialties that my mouth still can taste – fried apple pies, pound
cake, Swiss steak, meatloaf, stewed potatoes, black eyed peas and corn bread.
You haven’t had chicken and dumplings till you have had her chicken and
dumplings. I think her food was the
ribbon that tied the family together. At
least our version of the family. It was
certainly an odd assortment of people.
All related, but all so profoundly different, even in the way they
approached life.</div>
Janiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08455764039212519400noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15127934.post-13235385445636615762013-12-26T17:44:00.000-06:002013-12-26T17:44:22.533-06:00My Life in Words, Part Four: She went home to her family<h3 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="text-indent: 48px;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">My mom's life story continues, Part three <a href="http://rubyslippersx3.blogspot.com/2013/12/my-life-in-words-part-three-three.html">here</a></span></i></span></h3>
<div>
<span style="text-indent: 48px;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div>
<span style="text-indent: 48px;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
<br /></h3>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div>
<span style="text-indent: 48px;"><i><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
There was an ugly side to my birth
as well. I have to believe that my
mother wanted to grow up and be the mature wife and mother that she was on
paper. So there was some form of
reconciliation with my father. It seemed
obvious that he was as anxious to be a father has he had been to be a
husband. But again, there is something
about a beautiful baby that makes everyone want to take some credit. I was told that he took me to his family to be
shown around. I, of course, remember
none of that. To this day, I know none of my paternal history, with the
exception of some disjoined facts. My
father was a merchant marine, something
I learned as I read it on my birth certificate.
And my mother told me that his parents were named Hazel and John. He had a sister named Barbara and brothers
name Sam and “Donkey”. I would assume
that would be some good beginnings if I were to choose to do some detecting or
ancestry tracking. But I haven’t chosen
to do that. I felt that I had enough
unresolved situations in my life to open another door that wouldn’t close
again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-size: small; text-indent: 48px;">"She went home to her family, who willingly welcomed her and her baby back with open arms.</span><span style="font-size: small; text-indent: 48px;"> "</span></i></h3>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-size: small; text-indent: 48px;"> </span></i></h3>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
But as I said, my mother did
attempt a reconciliation. The couple who
really didn’t even know each other aside from carnally, rented a small
efficiency apartment and made a modest attempt at housekeeping. My father was a stranger to normalcy, or so
my mother felt. By that time, and he was
barely 18, he was a serious drinker. And
he moved in social circles who had nothing social about them. At one point, my mother told me that he was
carried home by two men because he was drunk and his hands had been cut up with
a razor. She had never experienced
anything that violent. While her family
had its share of disagreements, physical violence was not something familiar. Sadly, that was the only experience she
shared with me about their attempt at co-habiting. She went home to her family, who willingly
welcomed her and her baby back with open arms. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: normal;"><i>"a plan so devious"</i></span></h3>
<div>
<span style="font-weight: normal;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Months after the failed attempt at
a marriage, the young alcoholic man showed up at my mother’s job in what seemed
like an attempt to woo her back to the marriage. He even had a gift – a very nice dress watch
which was far nicer than anything my mother had ever possessed. She accepted the gift and told the giver that
she would have to think about it and they would have to work at it slowly if
there was ever to be any true relationship.
That may have shot his plans in the foot. Before she had made any decision, a bill came
to her from a local department store. It
appeared that she had purchased a lovely dress watch for herself. It’s always amazing when someone is able to
work through an alcohol haze to formulate a plan so devious. But what he really did was end any attempt at
any type of relationship with either my mother or me. I understand from a relative who says her
husband related a visit that my grandfather made to my father’s favorite hang
out. My grandfather was crystal clear in
his direction that my father was to never under any circumstances contact my
mother or me. Especially me. I think a death threat was involved. Was it true?
I do not know. But I do know that
I never heard from my father again.
Unless you count a phantom phone call I received when I was in third
grade. But we’ll talk about that in due
time.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
to be continued. </div>
Janiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08455764039212519400noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15127934.post-13730658973200864682013-12-26T16:59:00.000-06:002013-12-26T16:59:48.729-06:00My Life in Words, Part Three: Three mothers<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<h2 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">My mom's life story continues, it started <a href="http://rubyslippersx3.blogspot.com/2013/12/my-life-in-words-part-one-changes-in.html">here</a>, and continued <a href="http://rubyslippersx3.blogspot.com/2013/12/my-life-in-words-part-two-people-who.html?spref=fb">here</a>. Follow along, its far from over. </span></span></h2>
<h2 style="text-align: center;">
<i>"<span style="text-indent: 48px;">hyperbole from women who were born with southern story telling in their genes..."</span></i></h2>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fJ8i00yycXc/UrysizHbogI/AAAAAAAAISM/uhs0btXHyUg/s1600/photo+3+(1).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fJ8i00yycXc/UrysizHbogI/AAAAAAAAISM/uhs0btXHyUg/s320/photo+3+(1).JPG" width="226" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"> Evelyn (my grandmother)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
So my grandmother collapsed, grieving for an
infant that she hadn’t even known about four months earlier. While accepting the imminent death of a baby
she didn’t know, she prayed for the life of the baby she DID know – her
firstborn who yes, had made a mistake, but still deserved to live. Great aunts who were there at the hospital to
support their sister-in-law told me snippets of the story as I grew up. They marveled at the size of my grandmother’s
swollen feet. Swollen from hours and
hours of standing by her daughter’s bed, surely praying silently that she would
live. Other’s talked about the head of
the bed being put on blocks so that the whatever blood had not been lost would
have be sent to the areas of the body which most needed it. The parts of the story I most enjoyed were
the ones where each aunt told her version of the joy that was expressed when
the news was first reported that the baby who was thought to be dead was
actually living. Not just barely living,
but living and breathing and kicking, and doing everything that newborn babies
are expected to do. The nuns called it a
miracle for sure. But those who lacked
that same religious connection also called it a miracle. And suddenly, all the prayers which had been
divided between a dying baby and a dying mother became directed to the mother,
just a 17 year old girl, who still was in that comatose state between life and
death. She remained there for two days.
Many many stories grew out of those two days.
There was no lack of hyperbole from women who were born with southern
story telling in their genes. Oddly
enough, there appeared to be no males in this story, with the exception of the
obstetrician. The girl’s father, the grandfather, who was
there, of course, was the epitome of the stoic.
Silently smoking Lucky Strike after Lucky Strike, keeping all his
prayers, worries, and thoughts to himself.
Not once in my life did he ever talk about those dark days. But many many times he broke through his
upbringing to tell me how much he loved me and how happy he was that I was his.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
<i>"Those same fates must have seen the challenges that were to come..."</i></h3>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I believe that the fates knew how
difficult it was going to be to fit me into a family with very mixed emotions
about my arrival. So the easiest way to
ensure my acceptance would be to make my head the right size, make my eyes
expressive, and make my cooing sound as though it was directed to whoever happened
to be holding me at the time. Those same
fates must have seen the challenges that were to come so they went overboard in
one area – they made me a beautiful baby.
Beautiful to the point where strangers would stop and remark on my
loveliness. And I was sweet
natured. To hear the memories, I rarely
cried. The Good Sister, who became the Good
Aunt at my birth, was only 15 when I entered the family. In a real sense, she then gave up her
position of being the baby. Her reality
was that she became one of my mothers. Each “mother” took a role in my
development. Sadly, the biggest role of
my actual genetic mother, was just that.
She went through the difficult
pregnancy and horrific birth to get me to this realm. Then her job became receiving compliments I
generated. That went on for the largest
part of my life. The Good Aunt became
just that – a good aunt. She was the one
I waited on each day to come through the door.
My first words were her name. It
was her back that nearly broke from bending over to hold my hands while I
practiced the act of walking. She
hovered when I was with my mother as she was always fearful that something bad
would happen to me. She projected the
events of her life onto my life. And she
never, ever stopped doing that.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qsDmG5a8pt4/UrytXfQ6kCI/AAAAAAAAISc/iRWu_lZsrp8/s1600/photo+1+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qsDmG5a8pt4/UrytXfQ6kCI/AAAAAAAAISc/iRWu_lZsrp8/s320/photo+1+(2).JPG" width="280" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">(Aunt Beth on the left, Evelyn on the right and the overexposed baby Cathy.)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
But the biggest role was the mother
who did the mothering things. And that
fell to my grandmother. She was only 34
when I was born, and that was certainly more the age to be a mother than a
grandmother. But she didn’t fight to
make her daughter assume the role of mother.
I think that it worked out just as she wanted it to in her heart. She became my mother. She prepared my food and she fed me. She washed my clothes and she dressed
me. She bought my books and she read to
me. She filled every need I had, and in
some cases, she created a need for the only reason of filling it for me. She would have denied that, of course, but
all those who were close enough knew it.
The greatest thing she did was to tell me every day – most often several
times a day – that I was loved.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;">
My Mom's three mothers: </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Me-Maw, Aunt Beth, Evelyn</div>
Janiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08455764039212519400noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15127934.post-24215292440142693092013-12-26T11:04:00.002-06:002013-12-26T17:00:42.245-06:00My Life in Words, Part Two: People who never learned to weather the storm.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
My mother is writing her story, for part one, start <a href="http://rubyslippersx3.blogspot.com/2013/12/my-life-in-words-part-one-changes-in.html">here</a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-WoHTeMH0Avw/Urxg9G6I12I/AAAAAAAAIR0/o0WYLwQFtmg/s1600/1-photo+2+(1).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="311" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-WoHTeMH0Avw/Urxg9G6I12I/AAAAAAAAIR0/o0WYLwQFtmg/s320/1-photo+2+(1).JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">(found this in the memory book my Grandmother made for me... the lack of finer detail makes sense now that my mom is writing her story.)</span></h3>
<div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;">“my” birth story </span></h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The
rest of that chapter is very garbled. It
is something I must have studied when I was tired. I almost remember it but maybe the details
don’t gel, or facts are fuzzy. It could have been that the instructor, my aunt,
was too cautious about how she taught me the truth of my beginnings. She didn’t want to hurt me, but wanted to be
truthful and believable. Even though I
was forty, it was the first time I had been told “my” birth story. And as much as she wanted to give me the feel
good phrases that other babies are given, instead she was left with painful,
ugly facts which she had to spin into a story that at best she could make
humorous. She glossed over the supreme
family explosion that occurred that night in September when a sixteen year old
was confronted about her sexuality and thus, the state of her body – which by
that time was “our” body. Her mother
yelled, her father cried, and each one pulled and tugged and demanded until the
name of the perpetrator (never called my father) was revealed. Then came the movie script version that was
reality. A posse of fathers and uncles
tracked down this donor and pulled him from under a bed, and under the threat
of a gun carried by one uncle, a courthouse wedding quickly ensued. Too bad a marriage never followed. Well, nothing that could be called a marriage
anyway. The teen egg carrier returned to
her suburban existence of living with her parents and arguing with her sister
about whose turn it was to do the dishes.
The only change was that now there were other reasons for the younger
sister to resent the older one. The
pregnant one, despite doing something BAD, got treated royally. She was given steak to eat when everyone else
had cheap cuts. She got fresh fish while
the family got canned mackerel patties. Bad Girl didn’t have to cut the grass,
carry full laundry baskets, or go to school.
But the younger sister, who had done nothing wrong, had to go to school
and walk down the hallways which by then were full or rumors about her family
secret. It became so bad, the family
moved. And younger sister – good sister –
lost all her friends, teachers, routines, and security, to move to a new
neighborhood where no one knew about the ugliness. The resentment that began during the teen
years of the younger sister never left her – not even at her death. And in some
perverse twist, Good Sister ended up caring for Bad Sister as she died from a
disease directly related to another habit she started as an act of rebellion,
smoking. And so, the end of their lives
mirrored the beginning. Struggle, anger,
and bitterness existing in a sad dance of two people who never learned to
weather the storm.</div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Pz4g5kDnPIs/UrxgpawjKcI/AAAAAAAAIRw/dtvD3m-DsJg/s1600/1-photo+1+%25281%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="134" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Pz4g5kDnPIs/UrxgpawjKcI/AAAAAAAAIRw/dtvD3m-DsJg/s320/1-photo+1+%25281%2529.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-size: small; text-align: start;"> </span><span style="font-size: small; text-align: start;">It is said that babies come into the world in the exact form needed to insure bonding.</span></i></h3>
<div>
<i><span style="font-size: small; text-align: start;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My
troublesome trip into existence didn’t end with a calm, peaceful birth, a
delicate moment of a baby being placed in the arms of a waiting, but
labor-tired mother. No, I fought my way
into this life, and very nearly took the life of the girl-woman giving
birth. As the pregnancy reached its end,
everyone waited, as people have done since time began, for the signals of an
impending birth. But nothing happened. No twinges of contractions, no stabbing back
pains, and no tiny show of blood that would herald what was to come. Even the doctor expressed his concern, and so
a date was set when science would override nature, and labor was going to be
started with medicine.. By the time that
date arrived, the doctor had become ill with the flu. Yet he was so concerned about my mom and her
birth, he came to the hospital to preside over the events himself. That fact was often repeated to me, the
reasoning being that I would understand how wanted I was and how important even
the doctor thought I was. He remained
the doctor who took care of our family’s gynecological needs for many years
until his retirement. Even he told me
how my birth was one of his most memorable deliveries. To understand my
delivery, you have to put your mind back to a past that had no ultrasounds, no
heartbeat monitors, and no epidurals.
Doctors had stethoscopes, their hands, and years of training and
experience. Or at least, one would hope
that the doctor standing between her legs had training and experience. There was no internet to check those facts
out, to be sure. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is
said that babies come into the world in the exact form needed to insure
bonding. Maybe that is why I was beautiful. For many years, older relatives would tell me
that I was the most beautiful baby they had ever seen. Now, when I look back on my life, I think
that from the point of my birth on, I had to do everything possible to make
people fall in love with me. I disrupted
a family, I uprooted the social and educational life of a popular teenager, and
I very nearly killed the one who job it was to birth me. If you go back and read that sentence about
the doctor deciding to kickstart the labor process, it has no predicting hints
of what that one decision would cause. I
think the doctor always remembered my birth because two lives were very nearly
lost – mine and my mothers. No one knew,
or suspected I guess, that my in utero food source – the very one that was the
beneficiary of all those steaks and fish – was blocking my doorway to the
world. Science calls it placenta previa, but in 1953 – and even today actually
– it could be called death. When the
staff realized what was happening, my mother, still in her laboring bed, was
rolled into an operating room. She was
hemorrhaging. It was awful, I was told. A nun/nurse came out to the waiting area and
asked to speak to the mother’s parents.
They were told that there would not be a baby – not a live one anyway. She explained what had happened, and that in
those cases, the babies cannot live without a source of oxygen. Without a source of life is what she was
really saying. I couldn’t breathe air
yet, and I no longer had that lifeline umbilical cord attached to a placenta. I was in a dying limbo. But so was the teenager who had to have had
conflicting emotions about the baby inside her. She wanted that life. But she was ashamed of that life and if it
went away, maybe things would be easier. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><a href="http://rubyslippersx3.blogspot.com/2013/12/my-life-in-words-part-three-three.html">Part three here</a></b></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Janiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08455764039212519400noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15127934.post-61178967504811096942013-12-25T15:12:00.000-06:002013-12-26T16:26:42.724-06:00My Life in Words, Part One: The changes in her body. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<i>I love words, I asked my mom to give me the best gift ever - her words.</i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<i>On Christmas Day she sent a file with the start of her life story. I am moved to tears. The story deserves to be shared. I asked if I could share it here. She said it is a gift to me and I can do with it what I want. So without further ado.. My Mom's story: </i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cxP4Q6Cllh8/UrtJPLTlnuI/AAAAAAAAIRY/TUNLcOIqmbc/s1600/mom+horse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cxP4Q6Cllh8/UrtJPLTlnuI/AAAAAAAAIRY/TUNLcOIqmbc/s320/mom+horse.jpg" width="237" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had a
lot of strange thoughts as a child. The
odd thing is that I didn’t think they were strange. It was only upon the telling that I realized
that others didn’t have that common belief system. Now, don’t waste time trying to imagine what
my strange thoughts were. They weren’t
interesting enough to waste your thoughts on.
Here’s an example. I thought that
as humans ate, the food filled up their bodies from the feet up. One would only have to poop when that used up
food reached the place that all poop needs to reach. I don’t think that was my strangest thought,
but I don’t think it was my least strangest either – it is just given as an
example, so you can begin to know me as a child.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<br />
<h4 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>I consider myself fortunate to have grown up in what is most politely called the <st1:place w:st="on">Deep South</st1:place>.</i></span></h4>
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was
considered quite bright as a child, which in a way complicated the building up
of my knowledge base. Family members
just assumed that I knew things.
Extended family members (who made up most of the people we associated
with) didn’t really care what I knew.
But I often ate little nibbles of information from the very table of
life where others didn’t even know I dined.
You see, children were often unnoticed, much less assessed as to their
intellect. So I passed through my days,
gathering tidbits of information which I somehow fitted into my knowledge base,
while discarding other tidbits which no longer seemed accurate, interesting, or
even believable. I consider myself
fortunate to have grown up in what is most politely called the <st1:place w:st="on">Deep South</st1:place>.
Everyone I knew, even those I was not related to, were interesting. If they weren’t interesting on their own,
their neighbors and friends made them interesting by decorating their mundane
lives with half truths about their pasts, presents, or futures.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oddly
enough, the topic of which I knew the least was myself. I didn’t know who I was. I only knew that I had a mother, a
grandmother, a grandfather, and an aunt.
Those were the people who lived in my house. During my younger years, I never questioned –
didn’t even wonder – about why the makeup of my household was nothing like the
makeup of the other homes on the block.
When my friends had to go because a mom had called them inside, I was
listening for the voice of a Me-Maw.
Only rarely did a child ask me what, or who, a Me-Maw was. I knew intellectually that she was my
grandmother, but I didn’t quite understand why she had taken on the jobs that
were usually done by the moms of the neighborhood. Since most of my early playmates were my
cousins, I didn’t have to explain to them.
My adult self wonders what stories and explanations they had been told
by their parents to explain the makeup of our household. I could ask them now. I am on good terms and in contact with at
least two of them. But I don’t want to. I don’t want to know what mean or sad stories
they were told about me. Or maybe I
don’t want to hear the lie they would have to make up quickly in order to
respond to my question. Either way, I’m
content to just let it be.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<h4 style="text-align: center;">
<i> </i></h4>
<h4 style="text-align: center;">
<i>“Good” girls didn’t come home pregnant</i></h4>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
Ahh..
Me-Maw. Maybe Savior would have been a
more appropriate name. Now that I am as
old as I ever expected to be, I can put myself in her place and get a glimmer
of what it was like for me to join the family.
It was the fifties. “Good” girls
didn’t come home pregnant after meeting some boy at the skating rink. It wasn’t
even on her radar. It took forty years
before my aunt finally told me the story, and after I heard it, I understood
why it took that long. It wasn’t pretty
and there really wasn’t any way to pretty it up. A sixteen year old girl took up with a
seventeen year old boy who flattered her into doing things she hadn’t done
before. And once he had enjoyed the experience, he made the decision not to
enjoy it again. It was a typical teenage
flash-in-the-pan romance. But there was
this one little detail that wasn’t so typical.
In whatever uncomfortable, seedy location they found to couple, a
miracle happened. And I was that
miracle. </div>
<br />
<h4 style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-size: large;">a swelling in a belly</span></i></h4>
<div>
<i><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Later
on in life, it became obvious that the joining of babymaking material was not
something that was going to happen easily to my mother. I can imagine her slowly coming to the
realization of what had happened. She
was probably sick as only a newly pregnant woman can be. And the changes in her body so obvious in the
mirror, the shower, and the bath had to be hard to ignore. But ignore she did. Her brain helped of course. When one doesn’t want to believe something,
it doesn’t exist. But you can’t deny a
fetus into oblivion. It keeps
growing. And growing. And growing.
Every day, something is added to that mistake. A heart starts to beat; little toes grow on
little legs that soon begin kicking so hard, the movement is felt. And a teenager lies in bed at night and tries
to plan away something that cannot be planned away no matter how many prayers,
how many threats, or how many pleas. Until
one day, all the plans explode, and the growing truth becomes too obvious for
others not to see. In this case, the
teen with the secret is sent outside to hang the clothes on the clothesline
because that is the way it was done in 1952.
But some reason – maybe a mother checking to see if the job was being
done right, or maybe she just looked out to see a bird she heard chirp. But what she saw took her breath the way that
no bird could have done regardless of its beauty. She saw the sun – the same sun that would dry
her clothes and leave them smelling summer sweet – shining through the thin
shirt her clothes-hanging daughter was wearing.
And the almost autumn sun showed a swelling in a belly that she
recognized from the two times before when her body had looked the same
way. And the pit of her stomach told her
what was true way before her mind – or her heart – could accept it.<br />
<br />
<h4 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>To be continued...</i></span></h4>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><a href="http://rubyslippersx3.blogspot.com/2013/12/my-life-in-words-part-two-people-who.html?spref=fb"><br /></a></i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><a href="http://rubyslippersx3.blogspot.com/2013/12/my-life-in-words-part-two-people-who.html?spref=fb">Part two here</a></i></span></div>
</div>
Janiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08455764039212519400noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15127934.post-988996664794272942013-12-02T01:44:00.000-06:002013-12-02T01:44:04.074-06:00Faith I would like to introduce you to Epistemology <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LVVJLRcYUZ8/Upw4aNky27I/AAAAAAAAIQk/YmyNAOqAYsM/s1600/_MG_6975.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LVVJLRcYUZ8/Upw4aNky27I/AAAAAAAAIQk/YmyNAOqAYsM/s320/_MG_6975.JPG" width="213" /></a></div>
<br />
I want to take something back.<br />
<br />
I characterized my transition out of the church as a "faith crisis" and quite frankly I don't want to call it that anymore. It wasn't a crisis. It was difficult and emotional and generally a suck fest, but crisis? nah. And that term 'faith crisis' implies in some sense that I had created the problem.<br />
<br />
A while back I ran into someone, a mormon friend, and since our time was brief I didn't want to bring it up, but it came up anyway. "How is the ward?"<br />
<br />
good, as far as I know. (non committal answer)<br />
<br />
"How is the family?"<br />
<br />
great.<br />
<br />
"So what is your calling these days?"<br />
<br />
ummm. Actually we left the church in February.<br />
<br />
"WHAT? silence.....<br />
that <i>doesn't sound like you</i>."<br />
<br />
On the drive home that phrase bounced around in my head like a ping pong ball. "doesn't sound like you" it irritated me. It had nothing to do with me really. I dug into church history to solidify my faith, not lose it. What I found was NOT of my doing. History was history, I could not change it and I could not put it on the crumbling shelf anymore. How was I, almost 200 years later, dealing with the fallout of some other man's lies?<br />
In the moment of our conversation. I gave my elevator pitch of my main reasons for leaving. She said what I had heard before:<br />
<br />
"<b><i>I know</i></b> Joseph saw what he saw and did what he did."<br />
<br />
And there it was, the "I know" I kept the conversation polite and kind but I thought:<br />
NO YOU DON'T KNOW. You don't know. You just don't know. You just don't. I don't and YOU don't.<br />
<br />
You have faith, but I no longer see the value in faith. Faith is lack of evidence. Or in the case of mormonism belief not only with lack of evidence but against a<a href="http://mormonthink.com/"> mountain </a>of conflicting evidence. Faith is pretending to know something that you just don't know. Faith brings you here rather quickly:<br />
<div class="vk_ans" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: xx-large !important; font-weight: lighter !important; margin-bottom: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="vk_ans" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: xx-large !important; font-weight: lighter !important; margin-bottom: 0px;">
cre·du·li·ty</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 15px;">
<div class="lr_dct_ent_ph" style="font-size: large;">
<span class="lr_dct_ph">krəˈd(y)o͞olitē/</span><span class="lr_dct_spkr lr_dct_spkr_off" data-log-string="pronunciation-icon-click" jsaction="dob.p" style="display: inline-block; height: 16px; margin: 0px 2px 4px 5px; opacity: 0.55; vertical-align: middle; width: 16px;" title="Listen"><input height="16" src="data:image/png;base64,iVBORw0KGgoAAAANSUhEUgAAABAAAAAQCAYAAAAf8/9hAAAAcUlEQVQ4y2P4//8/AyUYQhAH3gNxA7IAIQPmo/H3g/QA8XkgFiBkwHyoYnRQABVfj88AmGZcTuuHyjlgMwBZM7IE3NlQGhQe65EN+I8Dw8MLGgYoFpFqADK/YUAMwOsFigORatFIlYRElaRMWmaiBAMAp0n+3U0kqkAAAAAASUVORK5CYII=" style="height: 16px; width: 16px;" type="image" width="16" /></span></div>
<div>
<div class="lr_dct_sf_h" style="padding-top: 10px;">
<i>noun</i></div>
<div class="xpdxpnd vk_gy" data-mh="-1" style="-webkit-transition: max-height 0.3s; color: rgb(135, 135, 135) !important; max-height: 0px; overflow: hidden; transition: max-height 0.3s;">
<b></b></div>
<ol class="lr_dct_sf_sens" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 20px;">
<li style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.2; list-style: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><div class="lr_dct_sf_sen vk_txt" style="font-weight: lighter !important; padding-top: 10px;">
<div style="float: left;">
<strong>1</strong>.</div>
<div style="margin-left: 20px;">
<div style="display: inline;">
a tendency to be too ready to believe that something is real or true.</div>
</div>
</div>
</li>
</ol>
</div>
</div>
<br />
When you really think about it, it's the things we have little evidence for that we keep fighting to believe. We are warned over and over again that our testimonies need "strengthening". What else in life once we have solid evidence for, do we need to keep strengthening our belief in? <br />
<br />
Studying epistemology, <i>thinking about thinking</i> has really changed my entire world view. When religious, there were vast areas of science and ideas that I was just not participating in. I have this new world open to me and it doesn't deal in a realm where I have to suspend my logic. There were so so so many things that just never made sense to me. <br />
<br />
I am still in the stage of processing. I am abandoning my native tongue. I can't just get up off my knees brush off the dirt and keep walking without deconstructing what I had worked so hard for - but now there is a whistle while I work.<br />
<br />
When people share their stories now I'm not so much interested in <i>what </i>they know as much as <i>how</i> they know.<br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">“There exists in society a very special class of persons that I have always referred to as the Believers. These are folks who have chosen to accept a certain religion, philosophy, theory, idea or notion and cling to that belief regardless of any evidence that might, for anyone else, bring it into doubt. They are the ones who encourage and support the fanatics and the frauds of any given age. No amount of evidence, no matter how strong, will bring them any enlightenment. - James Randi</span></span><br />
<br />
<br />Janiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08455764039212519400noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15127934.post-7267811996389969242013-11-21T16:30:00.001-06:002013-11-21T16:30:39.447-06:00This is the thing about being an a**hole <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Y3uxq7Qpc4k/Uo6GTaVCeOI/AAAAAAAAIQA/yEAKu5NfezA/s1600/IMG_6776.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Y3uxq7Qpc4k/Uo6GTaVCeOI/AAAAAAAAIQA/yEAKu5NfezA/s320/IMG_6776.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">tell me how you really feel. just kidding I don't need to know</span></div>
<br />
First a story:<br />
In 2006 the first winter I was a Texan, I helped out at the Stake's Nativity Exhibit. That was way more intense than I had expected but I loved it. I liked the "doing" of it, church is usually so much listening but this was "doing" I spent loooooong days rubbing shoulders with cool ladies decorating and more decorating and we put out HUNDREDS of Nativity scenes. The only frustrating part was that there was a lot of wasted effort and time. See it was arranged that people worked on sections - The wooden ones, the white porcelain, the international, the children's... And then when all were set up the big jobs of putting out poinsettias, sweeping, lighting ALL the sections with nativities, etc. could happen. But sections had to be done first and there were vast differences in the efficiency that some people worked on their sections. One night went till after 1 am because a section was "just not right" to a particular individual.<br />
<br />
The next year I was asked to be <a href="http://rubyslippersx3.blogspot.com/2007_11_01_archive.html">chairperson for the entire event</a>. My ONE admonition from those who called me to do it was to make an effort to be more aware of the time commitments people were making to this 2.5 day event. I held less meetings, delegated more, and when the time came made it clear that sections were to have "teams" and time was of the essence!<br />
<br />
Second day of decorating and the section of white porcelain nativity sets were only 1/4 out while others were nearing 3/4ths of the way. Then just before dinner the person in charge of her team decided since she had done this section EVERY year since the inception of this event .. once again things "did not look right" And suddenly without discussion, took every single nativity set back down.<br />
<br />
Frustration mounting, I stood in the vast cultural hall, and just observed. Every section was nearing completion while the white nativities were starting from scratch. I mustered all the niceness I could and begged: Can we please get EVERYBODY working on this section and just get them up? Then the next steps can happen and maybe we can be home before 9:00.<br />
<br />
"No. She said. I have a vision for this section it has to be a certain way. I can't have all these other hands involved."<br />
<br />
She continued at same pace as before. Others started standing around. They couldn't leave. I needed them for the lights and the netting and the sweeping.<br />
<br />
She meanwhile stood back rubbing her chin contemplating the placement of every single sheep, Mary and Joseph, then asked for different music to play over the speakers. I again asked if we could help.<br />
<br />
"nope I'm ok"<br />
<br />
sigh....<br />
<br />
After 7:00 she had to leave to run an errand. And the asshole in me that was too chicken to intervene in her presence was ready to act. Chairperson from the previous year said: "We can get these all up while she is gone."<br />
<br />
DONE.<br />
<br />
In 40 minutes, the Nativity section was complete.<br />
<br />
45 minutes after that, she returned to us lighting and netting the entire place, on our way to almost getting to leave before 11 pm. She was livid and cried and yelled. And people all let the blame fall to me. I had callously took away her 'area' that she had worked so hard on.<br />
<br />
I, in the end, was the asshole and the next morning missed another important event so I could have an apology meeting with her and church leaders, over her feelings.<br />
<br />
But we finished ahead of schedule AND almost a dozen women got home to their families sooner.<br />
<br />
<i>Was I wrong? I don't know. I sort of don't care. </i><br />
<br />
I have thought about this a lot lately. There seems to be this notion as social media progresses that we are less kind to one another. I disagree.<br />
<br />
Sure there are the offensive memes, tribalism political rants, and "look at them aren't they so stupid" statements. But me? I'm the often misunderstood asshole. I like to read and read and read, and I admittedly obsess over any topic that so interests me at the time. I've had my birth obsessions, health at every size, breastfeeding, religious rants, atheist rants, etc. I am that person who can genuinely debate a topic with you and STILL like you. I usually think I am right. I mean why would I think I was wrong and continue thinking that way? I rarely see 'both' sides as being valid. I want a good answer to questions and when I think I have found it I share it. Some see a kindness problem. I see a sensitivity problem. Its the marketplace of ideas. Put yours out there.<br />
<br />
There was a Penn Jillette<a href="http://pennsundayschool.com/"> podcast</a> where he was complaining about the tone of <a href="http://www.badastronomy.com/pr/">Phil Plait's</a> lecture at some skeptic event. His position was that skeptics needed to be nicer, no one was ever convinced by being argued with. NOT SO said Penn. I have been convinced by people arguing with me all the time. If my position is stupid, tell me. Be authentic for me. If you are a dick. Be a dick.<br />
<br />
I haven't been able to get it out of my head. If you are a dick. Be a dick. I don't think I am a dick necessarily. I am a know it all, I'm obnoxious. I like to debate, I like to play devils advocate, I like to think about things well past the constraints of normal, and I change my mind often. If I am wrong tell me, if you are wrong I might tell you. Now people who profess kindness but readily shun others, deal entirely in passive aggression, question your motives above your content - I have a short fuse for that.<br />
<br />
I will do anything to help you if I can. If you need it you can have the shirt off my back. I'll bring you dinner, I'll pick you up at the airport, I'll laugh with you, cry with you, and if you are up for it I'll argue with you.<br />
<br />
So am I kind? Am I not? I don't know, authenticity means much more to me. I'm too old and life is too short for me to not be myself. I am lucky in that I have a good sense of self and I am loved. My mom loves me to the ends of the earth. She raised me well and argued with me along the way and still will, but it has no bearing on how we feel about each other. My husband loves me, we can debate politics, talk philosophy make love and go to sleep. I have six kids who cuddle with me every single day. My sister and I face time during our bubble baths and NO topic is off limits. So maybe I am loved enough to afford to argue on the internetz. If something is important to me I will tell you about it.<br />
<br />
Don't hate me for it. But if you do hate me for it. Its ok. I promise its ok. If you need anything I will still do my best to help you. <br />
<br />
PS. Guess who has two thumbs and has been invited to write for <a href="http://skepchick.org/">Skepchick</a> grounded parents blog?<br />
<br />
THIS ASSHOLE, that's who!Janiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08455764039212519400noreply@blogger.com2