Menopause…God’s Mischief

I had a request to repost my article from a 2014 Book Fun Magazine column I did. I hope you will enjoy it!

MENOPAUSE…

GOD’S WAY OF SHOWING HIS HUMOR

I watch the beige woman across the terminal tugging at the neckline of her dull-colored turtleneck. She is focused on her Bible, a silent witness. Her face flushes and burns, like a match that has been struck on cement. The woman is about fifty-five with listless red hair and clothing the color of scorched grass. Everything about her seems to blend in with the crowd, except for the fact that she continues to tug and tug at the turtleneck until in one swift move she jumps from the seat, gathers her luggage and bolts toward the restroom. No one seems to notice her but me.

Curious, I follow her, entering the stall next to the one she occupies. As I skulk next to her, I can see she has torn everything from her body, as under the stall her clothes are piled on her bare feet. I hear her gulp deep breathes as though she is hyperventilating. I hear the toilet paper roll going around and around, and long strands of tissue being torn from the holder. Finally, more concerned than nosy, I ask, “Are you okay?”

Dead silence.

“I…I’m, okay. Hot flash. I should’ve never worn this thing,” she says. “You’d think I’d know by now. I hate getting old!”

I waste the next few minutes waiting for her to emerge, pretending to wash my hands, fluff my hair, and apply my lipstick. I have to lean in close to the mirror, as my readers are in my carry-on bag, and I don’t want to dig them out. All of a sudden, I see what looks like a six-inch hair protruding from my chin. I screw my face into a knot and quickly rummage through my bag for my spectacles. I put them on and look again, not believing that I have left the house, kissed my husband goodbye, checked in at the familiar United ticket counter where I encounter the same gate agents every other day, spent an hour at the Red Carpet Club, and gabbed with at least a half a dozen people, and no one has mentioned that I have a six-inch, black, pig tail looking hair protruding from the end of my face!

I pluck at it furiously, looking for other hairs that might be waiting to spring forth on my face. The woman emerges from the stall just in time to see my eyes bugging, and my head swinging side-to-side as though it’s on hinges. She gives me that knowing look. Her turtleneck is gone, replaced by a bright pink T-shirt. She drops the turtleneck in the trash, walks over to the mirror where she checks her own chin for hair. We exchange smiles, nod, both knowing that we are part of an ever-growing secret society. We are menopausal.

I can’t give the exact start date of my body change, as it springs on a woman like a hungry wolf. I only know it’s a part of life that’s been forced on me, one that I never asked for, nor wanted to receive. I was dieting. I was exercising. I followed all of the “beauty book” instructions so the change-of-life might linger longer outside my door. I knew it would arrive, “someday,” and that it would make plans for a long visit. But I saw “someday” as “just before I die,” not during my most vibrant hours!

I am in my early fifties and asleep the cold evening it arrives. I’m dreaming. All of a sudden, my skin feels like a roaring fire, and I burst into flames. I fling the blankets back and scream, “Hot! Hot!” My poor husband wakes up to see me drenched, and sweating, and is terrified to ask if he was involved in any way in the making of this fiasco. His face is fearful as he tries to comfort me from a distance.

“Honey, are you okay?”

I tell him to shut up. It’s just too hot for covers. He looks at me strangely, then flops backward again, lying like a flattened pancake under the extra stack of covers.

“Honey, turn on the fan,” his muffled voice says, trying to fix the situation.

“I don’t need the fan. I just need you to turn down the blessed furnace,” I retort.

“Honey, it’s set at 60. It’s only 22 degrees outside. I can’t turn it down any lower. ”

“60, my foot. You had to have changed it. It is not 60 degrees in here.”

“I’ll check. Can I get you something?” he says, padding off to the thermostat again. A bat, I think.

I wait until I am assured he has checked the thermostat another three times, open the window, and finally drop back onto the bed, worn from the experience. He moves closer to the opposite edge of the bed in some knowing fashion, clutching his pillow like he knows he’s going to die. By my hands.

This scene begins to reoccur sporadically. My husband asks if it might be wise for me to see a doctor. Maybe there is some medication that will help. The thought goes through my head that the medication would do him more good than me. I resist. My husband begins to ask more frequently, “When are you traveling again, dear?”

Other changes take place. I forget things. No, not where I live, or that I have a job, just little things. Like where are my keys? My purse? My car? Did I have a car? I feel the frustration building, but cannot control what is happening.

My clothes feel tighter. I have no energy one moment, and can run a marathon the next. Strangers offer advice. Magazines offer advice. Girlfriends offer advice. Doctors offer advice. My husband does not. He is unsure if I am the “new” wife or the “old” wife, and makes no move to help unless I can be identified. At times, I believe he is conspiring with this phenomenon. He eases in the door at night, listening for my moves. If I have music blaring, am cooking or writing, he shouts out, “I’m home, Honey” and we share wonderful evenings of bliss. If he hears silence, he sneaks back outside, climbs in his car and calls me from the neighbors.

He knows I am feeling like every piece of my womanhood is disappearing, shriveling up and blowing away like tumbleweed. He thinks I don’t know that he goes to the neighborhoods to cackle with the other men who are there for the same reason. Wives in menopause. He thinks he can wait me out. He prays he can.

All of a sudden, the moods smooth out. It might have been the day I traded all my turtlenecks for bright colored tops that gave me space to breathe. My chest falls lower now, anchoring on my waistline. It’s gone anyway, the waist I mean. It’s chased my hips clear to my thighs, which now lie like Goodyear’s tires just above my kneecaps. My kneecaps are dimpled with cottage cheese and haven’t seen the light of a candle, let alone the sun, in years. Everything about me is pure white. I can’t wear the color in public because small children point at me in the airport and scream, “Mommy, a ghost!” If I sit in the sun my complexion turns pasty and dry, sort of a Sonoma Desert sunrise, ruddy with a tint of red. I come to realize I am a cactus, dry, with protrusions that sprout without warning, then rot and drop off without reason.

I did not want this visitor, menopause. I’ve tried to block its entrance to my life with moisturizers, exercise, diets, and advice. But it came anyway, pockets full of trashy gifts and discouragement. I still resist, ingesting the vitamins that keep away the acceptance of this time of my life. I tell myself I’m not old. I’m not finished. I’ve got places to be and things to do!

Standing beside the beige woman in the rest room at the airport, I look at her one final time. She is brushing back glorious red hair strewn with threads of gray. Her cheeks are flushed. She is not young, but she is beautiful in the way that God’s wisdom gives beauty. We say goodbye and I watch her walk back to her chair noting how everyone seems to notice her confident walk, her smile.

I look once more in the mirror. I realize I like what I see. I’m changing for the good, and I’ve accomplished far more in my life than I ever set out to do, all because of God’s grace. I finally understand this unwanted visitor—menopause—arrives and I cannot send her away. I pray, thanking God for this season of my life, realizing it is yet another gift from His hands. I know he sees me plucking that stray hair on my chin and I am grateful He takes joy in laughing along with me. Another unexpected blessing!

A Week of Wilkes Friends!

I had hoped to share with you all my week at the Wilkes 10th Anniversary of the Creative Writing program by writing something everyday. Instead, I engulfed myself in the experience, letting every moment with friends and alumni count. Every day was filled with classes on the craft of writing, while evenings were spent listening to some very talented people as they read from their latest works.

On Tuesday, i had the privilege to teach a craft class alongside my cohort buddy, Gale Martin! That evening, I was one of the lucky ones invited to read from my upcoming suspense novel! It was a fantastic evening filled with excitement!

When the week ended and we all parted once more, I was reminded of how precious our time is and how valuable friends are. They have enriched my life!

Wilkes 10th Reunion Has Begun!

I arrived in Wilkes-Barre, PA a couple of hours ago. The plane was delayed by an hour, but a nice young man named Ryan picked me and a fellow student up at the airport and transported us to the Wilkes Creative Writing Program where all of our housing and scheduling information was waiting. The staff was well prepared for the onslaught of alumni, which has doubled the normal amount of people attending the summer residency. I bumped into an old friend and promised to meet shortly!

Whisked off to my “dorm” room, I landed in Fortinsky Hall, a newly renovated dorm where most alumni are staying. It made me laugh! As usual, knowing I was going to have to supply my “dorm” room with sheets, towels, fans, pillows, etc., I overpacked. When I was dropped off at the dorm with my two, very large, very heavy suitcases and a carryon, I realized that my shared room, (with author buddy, Gail Martin,) was on the third floor! Guess what? No elevator! You had to have been here as I dragged, dropped and threw the three pieces of luggage up those three flights of stairs. I am sure a good movie could be made of the whole incident.

When I opened the floor, there were two twin beds, two desks, two small dressers, two small closets and no bathroom. Needless to say, I soon found out that the bathroom on this floor of about 13 rooms is shared! Talk about funny!

Gail should arrive shortly, but everything is so clean and nice. I’m sure this place beats a LOT of the hotels I’ve stayed in when I was traveling! It’s like a girl’s week! Tonight we head to hear a few of our past instructors read, a real treat for all of us!

Nothing like meeting up with old friends! Can’t wait for what is yet to come!

Relationships Count in a Creative Writing Program

10thLogo_400x400

I was a 2011 M.F.A. graduate and long out of the stringent routine I had set for myself while attending classes. So, when the request for me to return to Wilkes University for the 10th Anniversary came, I was both surprised and excited, as it meant I could reconnect with the people who had profoundly affected my life. When the email arrived asking if I might do a reading as part of the celebration, my skin prickled with excitement.

I was both honored and humbled that Wilkes sensed my love for my experience at the school and invited me to be a part of their very special celebration.

TBL Cover

I was 55-years-old when I started to pursue my dream of writing. I was also blonde and married to a Pollack. Not a good start for any dream. Because I am more about relationships than I am about the structural components of learning, I struggled with the fear of my own competency to learn. I was a comma queen and functionally illiterate when it come to most punctuation.

But, I realized I’d have to take the chance. I kept depending on the thought that people would enter my life and encourage me, as I encouraged them. It’s just who I am. People mean something to me.

The first day I stepped onto the Wilkes campus, all of the confidence I’d rallied in myself disappeared. I became a jellyfish of emotion. What was I doing here? Can I even really write? Will I ever be good enough? Will they like me?Boy, look how young everyone is!

A quiet man hunched in a corner of the hallway just outside of the classroom door, as though he too, was afraid to enter. I approached him and introduced myself sensing his uneasiness. In moments, we bonded. I learned of his goals, his fears and his determination to become a writer, a story that touches me to this day. We entered our first classroom together and spotted a vivacious woman who stole the room with her joyful attitude. I knew we, too, would become close friends. With each introduction, my fears fell away and I quickly understood how very much alike we all were.

When I was first introduced to many of our talented instructors, Sara Pritchard, Bev Donofrio, Kaylie Jones, Kevin Oderman, Lenore Hart and Mike Lennon, among many others, I blushed at their talent. I felt so out of place. Yet, those moments snowballed into friendships that have enhanced my writing and my life.

Throughout that first week and in the years to follow, more relationships blossomed. When I left each residency and needed good advice or craft suggestions, I found myself able to call on my Wilkes instructors and my newfound friends. When I needed a recommendation or ideas, they supported me and helped me find my way. Years later, those same people are still there for me, encouraging, advising and criticizing when my work needs improvement. Along the way, I learned to understand the struggles and the sacrifices we each had to make in order to live the life of a writer, something only another writer “gets.”.

IMG_2360

In the past few years, I have enjoyed watching my cohort succeed. The friends I made at Wilkes have written some of the most beautiful words I have ever read. From a distance, I shared their joy as many were singled out and deservedly praised. I never felt good enough to be one of them, but I worked on.

Then one day, because of a Wilkes friendship, my first manuscript was picked up by Booktrope Publishing who subsequently created a Christian imprint, Vox Dei, just for my work and the work of other Christian writers they hoped would follow. Many others did follow. Somehow, my words had made a difference. Since that time, and because of the friends I made at Wilkes, I have recommended other writers to the Wilkes program, and to agents and publishers I have built relationships with.

The day my work was singled out as a finalist in the American Christian Fiction Writer’s Genesis Contest and the Kindle Book Awards, I knew the true value of my Wilkes degree. I had become a wordsmith, honed by my experience at Wilkes. Because of the awards, the incredible teaching and the relationships I’ve made through Wilkes, I became a regular contributor to Book Fun, a monthly online Christian magazine that boasts over 400,000 readers. I have also had the privilege to be a requested speaker at writing workshops in the United States and Canada, as well as a judge for several prestigious contests, gifts that have given me the experience to hone my own work.

The relationships I’ve made though Wilkes have not only benefited my writing, they have benefited my personal life. Just this past weekend, I spent a writing getaway with the incredibly talented and vivacious writer I met in our first class. For years, Gail Martin has encouraged me, guided me and lifted my spirits; a true gift afforded me by my time at Wilkes. Run-River-Currents-front-cover

As I prepare for my return to Wilkes for the 10th Anniversary of the writing program, I no longer feel the anxiety I felt on that first day at Wilkes. It has been replaced by confidence and gratitude. The relationships I have cultivated have long overshadowed the sacrifices and the insecurity I once had and added great value to my Wilkes degree.

For me, the long-term worth of my degree has come less in the mechanics of my learning, though it was a phenomenal experience, but more in the form of the relationships that were created with the students and instructors I met at Wilkes. I will ever be grateful to Wilkes for giving me the opportunity to engage with such incredibly talented professionals in a delightfully relaxed educational atmosphere!

I would not change a thing about my experience at Wilkes! It is because of the support of each of the dedicated people I have met that I now get to call myself a published author!

MANY THANKS THE WILKES CREATIVE WRITING PROGRAM AND A VERY HAPPY 10TH ANNIVERSARY!

A New Work in Progress…

Every now and then things start moving in my writing. It is one of those times right now. I have 30,000 words for an upcoming mystery series I have started and I wanted to share the news! Here’s a short synopsis. Feel free to comment!

 

When college newspaper editor, Lane Bellamy, is drawn into an on-campus sexual assault investigation, she soon finds herself his next target. Caught up in her fear, Lane accepts the task of conducting a routine benefactor interview, hours from the college, only to become embroiled in a  smuggling ring that reaches Syria and tests her loyalty to a dear friend, who just happens to be the university’s President.

Any thoughts?

Lord, How Will I Make a Difference?

Just last week I had a wonderful opportunity to be a substitute teacher for an Elementary School. I got up Friday morning feeling so excited. I knew the day was going to be a good one. I’d heard the school districts in my area had been needing Substitute Teachers. As a college professor and a grandmother, I knew I had the opportunity to step in.

I went through the difficult steps to be approved, which involved everything from tetanus shots, to fingerprinting, without a hitch. When the call came Friday morning, I was well prepared. I entered the First Grade class and read all of the detailed instructions left by the very efficient teacher. She even gave me a heads-up as to who my “problem” children might be.

All of a sudden, the hallway filled with children’s high-pitched voices and the room quickly filled with wide-eyed little ones. Directing them to hang up their coats and take their seats, I explained that their teacher would be out for the day, and that I was there to be sure they had help with their work for the day.

I’m not sure if it was that moment, or the next, when a young loud-mouth young man screamed at a little girl coming through the doorway, that I knew the day was probably doomed. “You’ll hate her!” the boy screamed, flinging his book bag to the ground. “Everyone hates her!” The little girl’s eyes widened and she promptly burst into tears. I tried to comfort her and explain that I didn’t hate her for the next fifteen minutes, while the rude boy jumped up and down on his chair. The other children just stared at me. When the girl seemed assured I meant my words, I took the young man aside and explained that it wasn’t nice to say such rude things. I gave him a stern warning, and let him know his behavior was unacceptable. He stormed back to his seat and pouted while I tried to regain control of the class. And so it was for the rest of the day.

The two taunted each other continually, disrupting the class to the point it made other children cry. I’d turn my back in a quiet moment to help one child, only to hear a scream and see the boy backing away from the girl with a pair of blunt-nosed scissors. I sent her off to the nurse screaming and crying and wrote a disciplinary note for him. Then he broke into tears and threw his classwork at another student. When the girl came back, she slapped a girl nearby her with a ruler and then lied about it. This went on through every subject I taught for the entire day. Screaming, crying, yelling and throwing things. One student would stop misbehaving and another one would start.

In the back of the room sat another young man who disregarded every exercise, every story or every math problem we worked on. He’d throw spitballs at other students and make faces whenever my back was turned. Another boy crawled on his hands and knees to a computer which was housed behind a blackboard and played computer games. It took me several minutes to even know he was missing.

The young girl “nobody” liked continued to scream and throw herself to the ground every time another student had a crayon she wanted, or wouldn’t read to her or do whatever she asked them to do. It was clear that she was not socially prepared to be in a class with others. Her disruptions affected every child in the room. When confronted, she told me I needed to give her a green “smiley face” on her work or her grandmother would beat her. (I promptly made note of that to the teacher.)

I worked with a few students, who said these kinds of things went on every day and that it was hard for them to listen or learn. My heart broke for these kids, kids whose parents obviously felt no obligation in being role models for their children’s learning or had not yet realized how their one “busyness” affected their child. As I walked a continuous circle around the class, I marveled at how each student adapted to the chaos in the room. Some ignored it, keeping their heads down. Some stared in bewilderment. Some cried, while others carried on conversations as though nothing were happening. Some cheated by copying off their nearby neighbor’s completed work. Others just stared straight ahead, waiting. I leaned over to offer a hand. He smiled up at me.

When I turned around again, two young men were gyrating like mating bulldogs. I caught the socially inept girl who decided that spitting on the student next to her was acceptable behavior. When I corrected her and told her to apologize, she threw herself to the floor and screamed that her stomach hurt. I sent her to the nurse, again.

Throughout the day, behavior became worse and worse. No amount of caring, threatening or coercion made a difference. Most had been to detention so many times, it was like a second home. All, but one, had come to school without breakfast. All hungry little souls.

By the end of the day, we were all in tears, including me. I asked them to quietly get their jackets and be prepared for their bus number to be called. Like a stampede of wild horses they made their way to their jackets, while I helped one sweet little girl finish up her work.

A second later, a blood-curdling scream filled the air. I swung around to see a pile of bodies meshed with puffy coats. On the bottom of the pile was one of my main troublemakers writhing in pain. I cleared the pile and called for the sweet girl to make her way first to the nurse and then to the principal. By the time they arrived, the rest of the kids stood against the wall. terrified at what might be coming next. I had gathered the information needed to deduce that the troublemaker had been either jumped on or pushed to the floor by the ignorer. They took the troublemaker away in an ambulance, his arm broken in the melee. The ignorer was to be suspended, yet another burden for he and his family.

I can’t tell you what a failure I felt like. I was handed the responsibility to protect and teach these little ones and I failed. I cried all the way home, disgusted by the parents who forget they have children to nurture and teach, by school systems whose hands of discipline are tied by political correctness and by law-makers who have failed to allow teachers to segregate those children who want to learn from those who do not.

I teach college English classes, as well. After seeing what goes on in the first grade, I now better understand the issues I am dealing with in college. I have students who enter my college-level writing classes and are unable to write a three word sentence with a capital and a period. Yet, they brag about being a 4.0 student and “hope” I will see fit to give them the same grade whether they do the work or not! When they fail my class, they are astounded, put off by the fact that I actually expected them to learn!

I was angry when I left that school. Yet, more than being angry, I was devastated by the lack of love these children display in their actions toward each other. If it is true that children emulate what they see and hear, then I now understand where the issues of teen pregnancies, suicides and drug use stems from. These children are seeking love and acceptance, yet they act out in anger and in the lack of hope they feel.

I wept half the weekend over this experience, pained by the actions of these children and the hopelessness I felt in trying to make a difference in their lives. I’d been in that place more than one time. I’ve felt the despair, both as a child and as an adult, of being “put aside” or “not enough” for anyone to really love. I ached for each of them.

When I picked up my grandson a bit later, I paid close attention to everything I said to him. I didn’t let him win every game we played. I wanted to show him that, in life, you don’t have to win to be good at something, nor will you win at everything you try to do. I sung hymns of praise and shared my raspberries with him, even though he wouldn’t share his with me. I took him to the library and let him pick just one book, when he wanted them all. In other words, I tried to make a difference in his little life.

At the end of the night, he hugged me and gave me his favorite stuffed animal. When I put my head beside his on the pillow, he circled my neck with his little arms and said, “Tootsie, you’re my best friend.” I squeezed him so tight. Tears spilled from my eyes as I held him and I prayed about those children I’d been with earlier in the day. I wanted them to feel the love this little boy felt. Maybe I couldn’t make the difference I wanted to make in their lives, but I knew I could try to show this little boy how important he is in mine.

Then, this morning, I opened the notebook I had taken with me to school. Tucked inside it was a note circled in red crayon from one of the students. A small heart was below the child’s name. It read,

“I like Miss M Because She is nice to my Frend but she like me too and she is the Besh teacher ever ind the holl scull.”

I smiled and bowed my head, praising God for the encouragement he had given me through the words of a child.

A Merry Little Christmas Gift!

From December 25 through December 29 you can download The Button Legacy: Emily’s Inheritance FOR FREE!  Load up those new Kindles and enjoy this heart-warming story of one man’s legacy of faith as it is passed from generation-to-generation through something as simple as a button!

Merry Christmas!

Just in Time For Christmas!

Everyone likes a good Christmas read! With all of the new Kindles about to be given as gifts, why not let the first book being downloaded be The Button Legacy: Emily’s Inheritance, FOR FREE from December 25-29? Give a gift of the heart to those you love!

Download the book, then make a comment here to be entered into a special giveaway!

Remember, December 25-29!

Merry Christmas!

Keeping Kindle

 

I’ve got a confession to make. I like the oldies, but goodies. I still hum the Beach Boys, Ba Ba Ba, Ba, Barbara Ann, to my year-old grandson. I put gravy and vinegar on my French fries like I did as a kid. I love vintage jewelry and classic-cut clothes. Change is not hard for me, and I love watching technology move along…but I can’t help liking nostalgic kinds of things. So it seems to not surprise anyone when I pull out my original pristine white Kindle. It was here that I downloaded my debut novel, Run, River Currents, to my Kindle—a thrill for any first-time author.

I remember that day so vividly; I was lying on a white beach in Mississippi, the day a summer-south kind of hot that made you sweat in air-conditioning. The day was bright, but it was no match for the clarity the Kindle gave me in the full sunlight, something my iPad cannot match. I was perched under a big, colorful umbrella, letting the sun bounce off my brilliant white legs while I read my latest download, Grace Unexpected. My cell phone rings, and I recognize the number—my book manager. “It’s up!” she gleefully tells me. “The book?” I cry. “Yes!” I slam the phone down, and within 30 seconds I am reading MY book!

So, it is no wonder that, when I returned a few weeks later from a business trip and pulled my now-famous Kindle (because I was an author and downloaded there) from my briefcase to charge it, I was horrified to see a small black square in the upper right-hand corner of my device. “NOOOOOOOOOO,” I screamed. “Not my Kindle!” My husband rushed to my side, thinking I had crushed a foot or broken my arm. Examining my Kindle, he declared it to be broken.

I slumped into my office chair and placed my left hand over my eyes. “What am I going to do now?” “Get a new one, honey!” he cheerfully offered. “I can buy you one for Christmas!” Now I have been married to this man for over 40 years. You’d think by now he’d understand me. This man knows I’ve kept underwear as long as we’ve been married. What on earth was he thinking? My glare had him backing out of the room within seconds.

Faced with the overwhelming dilemma of whether to replace my old friend, I went to the Kindle website and requested a call from the service department; I thought I’d beg them to fix my old Kindle or replace it with something identical. I was surprised that the call came within the five minutes they’d promised with a service person who empathized with my situation. I explained the love I had for my original Kindle and the reason it meant so much to me. She told me about her own fascination with vintage items and her love of reading. I felt like she was family, listening to my problems and giving me advice as though she were my sister. She even promised to download and read my novels. Kindle had sent me just the perfect person to understand my predicament. Within moments, we had determined that my original Kindle would need to be put to rest.

To my surprise, Kindle offered me a refurbished replacement with a full one-year warranty for a discounted rate! No, it would not have the buttons I was so fond of. Instead, it would be replaced by a touch-screen model. I had to admit, that sounded terrific. In fact, since I’d bought my iPad, I found myself trying to touch-screen everything from my push button cell phone to my television set. So we agreed, Miss Service Tech and I, that I would “try” the new refurbished Kindle. She agreed that if I didn’t like it, I could return it for a full refund within the trial period.

Imagine my surprise when, a few days later, a new Kindle showed up at my door. I was skeptical that I’d like this new model and turned it over in my hands several times, exploring the nooks and crannies of the unfamiliar device before turning it on.

As quickly as my trepidation had arrived, it disappeared when I turned it on. The delightful service agent had been true to her promise. She had made sure my Kindle books had been transferred to this new device before it was sent—and there, under “Ginger’s Kindle” was my personal library, ready to go. At the top of the list were my own books, Run, River Currents and The Button Legacy: Emily’s Inheritance.

It’s been a marvelous transition from the old to the new. Kindle made it easy for me by allowing me to replace my old model with a quality refurbished new model. Since then, I have purchased two Kindle Fires as gifts for family members, all because I was made to feel like part of the new Kindle family.

So with the New Year coming, I’ve put away a lot of the old, including my dearly beloved original device. But I’m keeping Kindle. It’s just a much prettier model. And by now you know this much about me: I can handle change!

The Loss We’ve Forgotten…Pearl Harbor

It was 7:55 a.m. in Honolulu when the first of hundreds of bombs dropped on our American fleet in Honolulu, December 7, 1941.  Hours later, 18 ships had sunk, 170 aircraft had been maimed or destroyed, and over 3700 were dead or wounded. Franklin Roosevelt declared that it would be, “a date that will live in infamy.”

I looked in the paper today, so many years after this tragic date, to find a small article stuck in the middle of  the local paper. It was an article about one of only a handful of survivors of Pearl Harbor. Another article spoke about the mismanagement and disrepair of the National Park Site of the U.S.S. Arizona, the main tribute to this long-forgotten tragedy.

I dropped my head to pray for those who served this nation during that time and thanked God for their sacrifice. Don’t let any of us forget this day. Not today. Not ever. Here’s your chance to support the memory of those who gave their lives there. Go to http://restore.arizonamemorial.org and give a small donation to help keep the memory of those men and women alive…..lest we forget.

Let’s not let history be rewritten or forgotten.