Homeplace

Last week I was talking with an old friend, who bemoaned, “Mom is selling our old house and moving into a retirement community. That makes me sad, and a little angry.”

“Do you mean you’re sad because your mom will be further away?”

“No. Not that. It’s like she is stomping on all my childhood memories. I was raised in that house. It has always been my HOMEPLACE.

Robert Frost defined “home” as “the place where, when you go there, they have to take you in”. There is profound truth in that. But homeplace takes it to an area of nostalgia, warmth, and memories. Your homeplace is where your family gathered every evening over dinner and discussed and solved the troubles of your world. It’s where Dad told you how to handle that school bully, and where Mom reminded you to take your cap off at the table. It is where you prayed, “God is great. God is good…” and “Now I lay me down to sleep…”

Your homeplace is where your dad met that scared boy that knocked on the door to take you to a movie, and did a thorough assessment before he let you go out with him. And it’s where you wrote in your diary and cried yourself to sleep when he didn’t call you.  That is the place where you dressed for graduation, and where you spent hours practicing lipstick application in the mirror. It’s the location of magical Christmas mornings, and of Easter baskets and dying eggs with Mom.  Baking cakes and cookies, and licking the beaters.

Your homeplace is the storage place for all your childhood memories. It’s where you played with your first puppy. For my friend “That back yard is where all our pets are buried. Oh Ginger, do you remember when my brother’s hamster died, and we had that elaborate funeral for him? The little rock headstone he made is still there.”

Oh yes. I do remember. We had our own pet cemetery in our side yard. Her house was just across the street from ours, and that is where I learned to dance, and where I got my first awkward kiss.  The street in between is where we rode our bikes, skated, and drew hopscotch patterns with chalk rocks.

But, as Thomas Wolfe observed, “You can never go home again,” because your homeplace is about the people you shared your life with. My friend could buy the house from her mother, but without family and old friends, it’s just a house, albeit a house full of memories.

I believe your homeplace is where, when you go there, you find that part of you never left.

Specificity

Several things have happened in the last couple of months that led me to think about this.  A good friend was sent home from the hospital on Hospice care, which means he had little time left to live.  That was the precipitating event that started me thinking about this topic of specificity.

Have you ever lost a loved one, and well-meaning people say, “Let me know if you need anything,” or “I’m here if you need me,” or something of that ilk? Maybe you’ve even said something like that  to someone. You probably really meant it, too. When people who are grieving hear that, they are too overwhelmed with emotion at the time to respond with anything more than, “Thank you.” And they really mean that too. But what do they need? They usually don’t know. And even if they DO know, they might not know exactly what you mean by “ANYTHING”. 

When I was a new widow, I was in the position of hearing “Let me know if you need anything,” many times just before and during Keith’s funeral. I’m sure those people really, really meant it, too. But what did I need? I didn’t know. In retrospect, I needed someone to come clean my house, which had been neglected for months during Keith’s illness. I needed someone to bring me some firewood for the fireplace, since I had used most of what I had. For that matter, I needed someone to clean the ashes out of the fireplace. I had food in the freezer, but didn’t have the energy to thaw it and cook it. It would have been nice if someone had come over and done a couple of loads of laundry. I needed someone to go get milk and bread and coffee – all of which was gone/depleted.  But I couldn’t think of any of that at the time.

It didn’t occur to me until after Keith’s death that I literally(and I mean LITERALLY, not figuratively for you grammar nerds) hadn’t had a break in over 2 months, and was physically and emotionally exhausted. During the last month, I needed someone to say, “I’ll come over and sit with him for several hours and let you sleep, or shop, or sit outside and read, or visit a friend.” I just didn’t know who or how to ask for that kind of help. Everyone was just, “Let me know if you need anything.” I didn’t think of that at the time. And probably wouldn’t have asked if I HAD thought of it. But if anyone had offered, I gladly would have jumped right on it!

Pardon me for spending so much space on ME and MY thoughts, but I’m the only one whose thoughts I can really know for sure, and it is directly related to the topic.

So anyway, I wanted to let my dying friend know that I cared about him, and that there were specific things I could do for him during his last days.  So I wrote him a note, telling him that I knew he was sad and disappointed that the treatment he hoped for hadn’t happened. I told him that I was available any time of the day or night,  and that I could read to him, talk to him, listen to him, pray with him, or just sit with him in silence and hold his hand. I could prepare meals for him, watch TV with him, wash dishes or clean house for him. I could write notes to his pals and mail them for him. I reminded him that I’m a nurse too, and I could also use those skills to help with medications, back rubs, phoning doctors, and changing bed linens.  I’m just a phone call away.

So think about this: Instead of offering to do “anything” for someone, think about specific things to offer. Or if it is a close friend, just show up with food, an emery board and hand lotion, and a willingness to see for yourself if there are dishes in the sink or clothes in the hamper. 

Prince Charming is NOT A REAL PERSON

It’s a mystery to me how people can still fall for the same old scams that have been around for decades now. Every time I get an email from a Nigerian prince, wanting me to shelter millions of dollars for him, in exchange for a percentage, I am amazed that I still get these offers! But I know I get them because this scam is still working on somebody somewhere.

The newer scams are more insidious. They apparently appeal either to the less educated, mostly lonely older people whose children don’t visit often enough, or to naïve young people with minimum wage jobs desperate for a way to pay for their children to play football or be a cheerleader. Not that anyone with a caring heart  can’t be swindled, but somehow almost everyone else recognizes the inherent “cost” to the victim of these hoaxes.

I’ve known several people in the last year who have been swindled by auto leasing. Making an exorbitant car rental payment every month, that is double or more what a car payment on a good used car would be, should be criminal. I have a neighbor who is pushing 78 years old, and should have retired years ago, but who says she can’t afford to live if she does, is making a $450/month lease payment on a 2016 Honda Accord that she drives a mile and a half to work every day.

“Ethel!” I say, “You could get a CAB or an UBER to work cheaper than THAT!” (Or really, on nice days, walk It’s not that far.)

“Well, I have to have a way to get to the grocery store on Saturdays too.” Is her reasoning.

A couple of weeks ago, I learned of a disabled veteran who is on V.A. Disability, which is not even enough to pay rent and utilities. She has no food, but that we could furnish. When talking with her about budgeting, etc., we discovered that she is leasing a car for – GET THIS - $500/month! We have access to several older used cars we could give her, but her car lease is ironclad. She can’t legally get out of it. She signed a contract. Kinda like trying to get an early out of an apartment lease.

That’s just two examples. There are several more that I know of. If I know of them, there must be hundreds if not thousands of car leasing victims out there I don’t know of.

Another racket is reverse mortgages. I wasn’t sure about that, so I called one company that offers these, so I could get more information and find out how that works. That was 6 months ago, and they are STILL calling and emailing me every couple of weeks to see if  I’ve decided to do a reverse mortgage yet. In my last conversation with them, I said, “I would be a total MORON to do a reverse mortgage! You people are con men, and what you’re running over there is a total sham! You should be ashamed of yourselves. I’ll bet many people actually fall for your hustle. UNBELIEVABLE!” and hung up on them. But they are relentless in their continued onslaught.

Here’s how it works: People who own a house, or who have equity built up, and who need money now, or who can’t afford their house payment any more (because of retirement, job loss, etc.) can give their house to the bank. Well, it’s more like loaning your mortgage to the bank. The bank gives you a little lump sum “down payment”  for your house, and you can also set up payments he bank makes to you every month. They call it a “reverse mortgage” because the bank is making small mortgage payments to you, instead of you making payments to them. Remember that when YOU make a mortgage payment, most of it is interest payment. When the bank pays you, there is no interest payment, so while you aren’t making a house payment, the bank is paying only a few hundred dollars a month to YOU.

But like all scams, there’s a “catch”. The bank owns your house. Kinda. They let you live there until you move out, move into a nursing home, or die. Then the jig’s up. Your family has one month to clean out the house and sell it to pay back the money the bank gave you. If they fail to sell the house in the month, the bank owns it free and clear. Your family is out whatever equity you had in the house, and is out any profit that might have been gleaned from the sale of it.

Maybe the most cunning and heartbreaking scam of all is a phenomenon that is happening on Social Media – in particular facebook. It seems to be an extension of some of the fraud we used to see on dating sites.This is how it works: You get a friend request from (in my case usually) a middle aged male veteran. (I hear the jerks who perpetrate this hustle first study your home page, to see what kind of person you are likely to be sympathetic to, or attracted to, or vulnerable to.) Men are not immune to this scam. A man might get a friend request from a slapout gorgeous woman. My female friend got a scam friend request from a very handsome man in his late 60s, retired business owner, and living in Paris. He messaged her that he was blown away by her beautiful profile picture, and would LOVE to get to know her. She is single, and almost fell for it.

These scammers play to whatever emotion they think will pull you in. They are EXPERTS at it. If you answer their messages, or befriend them, you have swallowed the bait, and they easily reel you in. One woman I know befriended a  man who messaged her, emailed her, loved her, and flattered her for over a month before saying that his mother was ill and was stranded in Mexico. She needed money to get back home. Would she send $3000 to his mother? He would so appreciate it, and he would pay her back as soon as his stock dividend check was deposited the end of the month. The woman was so moved by the man’s love for his mother, and so upset that the sweet old lady was stranded in Mexico, sick, and with nobody to help her, that she sent $5000! She told her newfound friend that he didn’t have to pay her back. She was just happy she could help.

Of course, that “friendship” was over as soon as the money left her bank. BAM!!

Understand, I’m not against making new friends. But let me warn you: If you get a friend request from someone with whom you have no mutual friends, be smart. DELETE it and mark it as spam. If you get a friend request from someone with whom you have only one or two friends in common, ask your already friend about him/her before you accept the friend request willy nilly. Ask yourself about motive. Why is this person, who doesn’t know you from Adam’s house cat, and who doesn’t know anyone else you know, except maybe that one person you don’t really know, but with whom you play Criminal Minds, or with whom you are in a common interest group, so is therefore your “friend”,  wanting to be your facebook friend? It can’t be honorable motives.

That’s enough for now. Use your common sense. Don’t be a MARK (victim).

Guard your heart and your money. 

Charlie

Sometimes something… a smell, or a picture, or a song… floods your soul with memories. 

A couple of years ago, an old friend from high school found me and reconnected. 

In my senior year of high school, I was chosen to be in the Alabama All-state Orchestra. What an honor! Because I was in the Birmingham Symphony Youth Orchestra, I was a candidate. I was THRILLED! I was first chair in my high school orchestra, and kinda full of myself.  In the Youth Orchestra I was second chair, but I knew I was better than that. Well, in the Allstate Orchestra, I was still second chair – to first chair Fleetwood McAllister.  Seriously. That was his name. His dad taught music at the University of Alabama, so I figured it was political.

The first viola was Charlie. His dad also taught at the University, and he was totally ADORABLE!

  It’s not a great picture, but good enough for you to get the idea.

Anyway, Charlie was my first mature crush. My first real “puppy love”.  Besides being an accomplished musician, he was handsome, smart, kind, funny, fun, and a gentleman. Opened doors, called my mother "Mrs. Galloway", and held my chair at restaurants. He held my hand, back when handholding was intimate. Although he lived in Tuscaloosa, before I20/59, he drove all the way to Birmingham to take me out to eat, to movies, and to Vulcan, back in the day before an elevator, where we climbed to the top, looked out over the Magic City, and where he kissed me – gently and timidly. Our first kiss. At the gift shop that day, he bought me a necklace, that I wore for many years.

I came from a firmly middle class family. My dad was a scientist and my mother a teacher. Charlie was way out of my league. But I was a teenager, and oblivious to those limitations.  I did the normal things any teenage girl did back in the day. I wrote in my diary. I wrote our initials in crossmarks inside hearts. I wrote my first name with his last name. I hugged my pillow at night, and I dreamed. That’s what girls did back then.

I graduated high school and went to college. He gradually stopped coming to Birmingham so often, and I filled my days with bridge games in the Student Union building and parties ... on yes, and some studying. We eventually lost touch.

Several years later, I happened to buy a piano from his brother, who had set up a used piano store in Birmingham. I asked about Charlie. He said, “He joined the Navy.” And that was that. End of that story.

Until 50 years later. Charlie found me. He had married. They had a couple of children, and now he is a proud grandpa. He sent pictures of his adorable grandbabies, and I was joyous with him. He crafted baby cribs, because now he no longer played the viola. He was an accomplished craftsman in woodworking. (His sister, by the way, married Fleetwood McAllister. Really.) And for 3 years we relived old times, and got re-acquainted and got to (virtually) know each other’s families. We talked on the phone. He was still the Charlie I had known all those years ago. He was gentle, kind, intelligent, talented, and loving. He bragged on his kids, and I bragged on mine. I would know his kids anywhere, just from his descriptions, and from the pictures he shared, as he would have known mine. Both of us had smart, beautiful, talented children, and we shared bragging and stories through emails and pictures. As if we were two old folks in a nursing home.

Then there was a snag… in his words:

“Just a note from a high school drop out about a life moment.

In 1964 a viola player at Alabama AlState Symphony met a cellist from Birmingham.  He was smitten.  She was a Sr in high school and he a Jr.  He really liked this young lady.   A whole lot.  Well she wouldn't want to date a high school kid next year.  As he was a terrible student and might well not graduate next year.  What's a guy to do.

 He found that if you got a GED that the U off A had to accept you like a HS grad.  So, he took the GED, applied, and got accepted.  No money, but had a job.

Well they drifted apart, both married and had two children.  They meet again on line fifty years later.  The cellist had lost her husband to brain cancer.  Now the violist has it.  His second surgery is scheduled for Thursday noon.  His faith is deep.  His spirit’s good.

Thanks to all for prayers and encouragement.”

Charlie passed away last year, and is buried at Arlington National Cemetery.

Rest in Peace, my old friend and SALUTE.  I hope we meet again someday in the hereafter. I want to kiss you one more time.  Gently and warmly.

COFFEE CUP CHALLENGE

My favorite time of the year is the time between Thanksgiving and the New Year.  During that month and a half, most of us gather with family for laughter, shared meals, memories, gift-giving, celebrations, and setting goals to improve ourselves for next year.  Some of us visit friends, family, or places that have previously been sources of joy or memories. A few of us will find someone who thinks s/he has little to be thankful for, and make a difference to that one person, if only for a few hours. 

In October, I had occasion to visit the DAV (Disabled American Veterans) Post 4, located on the corner of 2^nd Avenue and 2^nd Street North.  For those of you unfamiliar with Birmingham, that is probably the center of the poorest, most underprivileged, homeless, hungry population in Birmingham. At first, I was reticent to even visit this organization. It isn’t in a section of Birmingham I drive through, but AROUND.  But I had agreed to share my time and my “talent”, so to DAV Post 4 I went.

I won’t bore you with the details of my visit, but at the end of the hour, I had discovered something: First, I’m a life member of the DAV, but I discovered that I am a member of none other than Post 4! You guessed it -  I’ve never been to a meeting. The Commander was thrilled when this discovery was made, and insisted that I start attending, the 4^th Thursday of every month.

“Next month, Thanksgiving falls on the 4^th Thursday,” I pointed out, hoping for a reprieve for at least a month. “Do you have an alternate meeting day?” He looked at me with a furrowed brow.

“No. We will meet Thanksgiving Day,” he smiled. “We will be serving Thanksgiving dinner, so bring your family!”

I was a little confused. “Then you will meet at noonish?”

“No,” he smiled. “We will be here at 8am to start cooking, and will start serving around noon, and will serve until everyone has eaten. We will pause at 6pm, our usual time, for a short meeting, and continue serving and eating until everyone is through.”

“Well, what if people come in off the streets?”  I was thinking there are at least a couple hundred homeless people within a few block area. His reply was so kind, and so unselfish:

“It’s EVERYONE’S Thanksgiving,” he said. “We will serve our members and their families, as well as the 400 or so homeless people we usually serve. We will also have blankets and goodie bags for anyone that wants or needs them. That will take most of the day and evening. We will pause at 6pm for our meeting. I hope to see you and your family here for a delicious meal and some camaraderie.”

I’ve digressed here.  It’s just that I was totally blown away by this little organization’s unabashed and unselfish gifts of time, talent, and money… just as Jesus said.

This is the time of year that we celebrate our blessings, but also the time we start to look forward to a new year, a new beginning of sorts. (Some of us are also planning for our upcoming income tax issues.) Most of the people I work and play with are some of the most generous people I’ve ever known. And I mean this in every sense of the word! 

There are those that give hours upon hours of time in service to missions too numerous to mention: The American Legion, the V.A. Hospital, cleaning stoves and refrigerators at a huge warehouse in Norwood, Avondale Samaritan Place, their churches. There are those that give freely of their talents, and it is those who keep the “doors “ of the various organizations open, and who facilitate roof patches, stove repair,  grounds upkeep, and plumbing issues, to name a very few of their talent gifts.

There are those who give very generous monetary gifts that provide food  for the hungry and shelter for the homeless, and support Children and Youth services, and keep the power and water on down at the VFW, and so much more!

So, in this time of Thanksgiving, I ask you to think about your many blessings, pray about them, and see what of those you can share. Can you spend an hour on Wednesday serving soup to the homeless in Avondale Park? Can you vacuum the VFW once a month? Can you deliver a bicycle to some little one who needs a smile for Christmas? There are myriad ways to give of your time and talents.

And while you’re thinking, think on this: Can you skip one Starbucks every week for someone for whom $5 is a meal? Or for an organization that will match your gift? That would be $250/year. When you go out to eat, can you eat chicken instead of steak? Or go to McDonalds for their delicious grilled chicken salad instead of Chuy’s?  In a year, that’s a savings of another $300 or so.  (I could skip Mario’s pizza and eat Publix pizza, for example.)

Remember the Ice Bucket Challenge? Well I’m issuing a “Coffee Cup Challenge”. It works like this: Look at your weekly habits. Find something you can do weekly to save the cost of a Starbuck’s coffee (about $5), and drop that in your offering plate every week… or put it in the “cat can” at your VSO meeting, or donate it to Wreaths Across America, or to the Overlook project  for the Support Committee for the Alabama National Cemetery, or any way you want to do it, add that $250 to your Christmas gift to your favorite charity.

If everyone I know took on my Coffee Cup Challenge, 2017 would be an UNBELIEVABLY wonderful year for so many who don’t have as many blessings as you have.

AT&T: The Definition of Customer “Service”

If you’ve ever dealt with AT&T, you may have had an experience similar to mine. The definition of “service” here is the one that means “mating”, as in “the stallion serviced the mare”. Just letting you know before you read this.

Let me give you some background: Last September I received a disconnect notice from Uverse. When I called, they said my debit card had expired, so my (automatic) payment request had been returned from my bank. OK. Fair enough. How much was my bill? $139. WOW! My monthly charge is $60. Why so high? Well, I was told, there is the $60 account fee, plus $50 equipment charge, plus a late fee, plus a reconnect fee, plus a $5 convenience  fee for now paying my bill by phone. So I gave them the new expiration date, and paid the outrageous bill.

Thinking this would be the end of that, I settled into complacency, knowing there would be no more problem until 2021, when my debit card expires again.

Today I get a message from AT&T that my internet service has been disconnected again, and I owe $132. WTF? So I call, go through the infinitely long recorded menu, which informs me I just made a $132 payment on November 20, and finally reach a customer “service” representative. 

She explains that, once again, my payment has been “reversed” by my bank, so I owe the $132 again. She also explains that the bill is high because of yada yada (same as in September). She also informs me that the bill for November will not be “posted” until tomorrow (Dec. 1).

“Why did my payment get reversed?”

“We don’t know. I suggest you call your bank.”

So I make the payment, and immediately call the bank. They tell me they have received no request for payment from AT&T in months. So, of course, I call AT&T back.

Recording:  Is this regarding the payment you made today? Do you wish details?

ME: NO.

Recording: How can I help you? I can understand complete sentences.

ME: I want to speak to a supervisor.

Recording: I’m sorry.  I don’t understand.

ME: I – WANT – TO – SPEAK – WITH – A – SUPERVISOR

Recording: Is this regarding the payment you made today? Do you wish details?

ME: NO. SUPERVISOR PLEASE.

Recording: I’ll  connect you with someone who can help you with that.

Jay: Hello. My name is Jay. How can I help you?

ME: You can connect me with a supervisor.

Jay:  Can you tell me what this is in regards to?

ME: Yes. My Uverse account.

Jay: Maybe it’s something I can help you with.

ME: I seriously doubt that. Just connect me with a supervisor.

Jay: All our supervisors are busy helping other people.

ME:  I’m not surprised. If all your customers are as pissed off as I am, I’m sure they’re ALL busy and will be for a LONG time!

(pause)

Jay: Can you tell me the problem, so I can let the supervisor know, as soon as he is available?

ME: Yes. I can. I want to know why I’m paying $132 a month for piss-poor service, that works about half the time, and I have to use my personal hot spot the rest of the time, and why you say my payments are being “reversed”, but can’t tell me why, other than to call my bank, which I have done, and the bank says your payment request never came through the bank in the first place, and why I’m not informed of a payment reversal until you have disconnected, so there is a reconnect fee, PLUS a $5 inconvenience fee for paying my bill over the phone, when I have an agreement to autopay every month. I also want to know why your automated recording tells me I made a payment on November 20, but your live representative tells me I didn't.  I also want to know how to reach you people, when your auto-recording says they don’t understand my complete sentences, after it has just said it DOES understand complete sentences, because I don’t stutter.

Jay: Thank you for that information. What is the phone number associated with this account?

ME: Do you people not have caller ID? My number is 205-999-9999 (I gave him my number)

Jay: Is that 215-998-8892?

ME: NO. It’s NOT.

Jay: Can you tell me slower?

ME: 2-zero-5-9-9-9-9-9-9-9

Jay: Our supervisors are all still busy.

ME: Of course they are!

20 minutes later, I get a supervisor.

John: Thank you for waiting. I hope you’re having a great day!

ME: No. Actually I WAS having a great day until I had to interface with AT&T. It has been steadily downhill since then.

John: Well, I’m gonna make your day great again!

ME: We will see…  (and I tell him the same thing I told Jay).

John did make my day a little better, informing me that the debit card number they have “on file” isn’t mine, nor is it even close to my actual number. No wonder my payment is being “reversed”. So far, so good, until…

John: I’m going to make your day even better. We can bundle your TV, phone…

ME: I’ve already got ONE AT&T service that works half the time, and charges a FORTUNE for that half time. Why in the world would I want to have TV and telephone that also work half the time, and furthermore, that I can’t get help with when I need help, because the customer “service” people don’t know anything, and supervisors are always busy, because customers get so upset that only a supervisor can help them? What y’all apparently need down there are more supervisors. NO. I do NOT want to bundle ANYTHING with AT&T. I wouldn’t have Uverse in the first place if there were any other single service in my area. When there is, rest assured, I will be OFF your books entirely.

John: So I’ve made your day better?

ME: (sigh) Yes. I guess so. Slightly maybe.

John: Thank you for using AT&T.

Customer SERVICE. At its BEST.

Rest In Peace, Sailor

Every December, when the ‘Wreaths Across America' program is presented at the Alabama National Cemetery, Col. Bob Barefield reminds us that beneath each marble marker is not just a faceless VETERAN, but a son or daughter, a brother or sister, a mother or father, or a friend. He challenges us to write down the name from the stone where we place our wreath, and when we get home, research that veteran. Find out who he really was.

I received an email that had dozens of recipients listed, requesting that if I am able and available, I attend an interment service at the Alabama National Cemetery for a “homeless veteran, who has been in the morgue since last October”.  Apparently this Navy veteran was estranged from his family, and had no friends either. It would be up to his fellow veterans to pray for him, bid him Rest In Peace, and to thank him for standing his watch, assuring him that he can now “Stand down. We have the watch now.”

The Patriot Guard Riders (PGR), as always, unhesitatingly answered the call. Besides providing a motorcycle honor guard for the final leg of the journey, they also stood an unwavering flag line for this veteran that none of them knew personally.  Six of them solemnly carried the coffin to the committal shelter, and one of them accepted the triangular folded flag. At their own expense, the PGR stood in for family and friends. Not only patriotism, but camaraderie at its very best.

      

The two sailors who folded the flag were uniformed in immaculate, crisp white uniforms,  and performed that honored duty with precision.  

The bugler played TAPS.

As I witnessed this solemn final goodbye, I wondered why. This sailor was a Vietnam veteran, so he was somewhere around my age. Why was he “estranged” from his family? Who had his family been?

Did he have a wife that he had wronged in some way? Children? Brothers or sisters? What in the world could he have done that nobody will even come to his funeral? I have to think his parents are deceased, because I can’t imagine a mother not loving her son, no matter what he has done.

He was once a baby, whose parents and grandparents marveled at his first smile, his first word, his first step. He was taken to Olan Mills and photographed as the most beautiful baby ever born. They put his picture in a frame and proudly displayed it on the mantle.

Once he attended elementary school, cleaned blackboard erasers, played baseball, flirted with a little girl. He had friends on the playground. Once he attended high school, played football or basketball, or played in the marching band.  Maybe he drove a beat-up old Ford Falcon with no hubcaps. He took a girl to a movie, bought her popcorn, and kissed her goodnight.

And once he  visited a recruiter and took that oath... signed that line... that check, “made payable to the United States of America, for an amount up to and including his life”. He endured basic training, and served – HONORABLY -in Vietnam. He shared the “watch”. He had buddies. He laughed and he probably cried. Maybe he played penny ante poker or Bid Whiz with his shipmates. For sure he missed someone back home. And for sure we didn't say, "Welcome home, Sailor."

Then, sometime in the last 50 years he did something so horrendously terrible that he alienated everyone except God. Maybe he had PTSD. Many Vietnam veterans did, and were not given treatment. Maybe he was subjected to Agent Orange. Many Vietnam veterans were, and were not given treatment. Maybe he became addicted to drugs or alcohol. Many Vietnam veterans did, and were not given treatment.

After the ceremony, I asked 3 different people what the veteran’s name was.  Nobody knew.  So I went to the main office and asked there.

When I got home, I tried to research this faceless, forgotten, unloved, friendless, homeless veteran. Nothing. Except the PGR, who also took on the job of obituary.  On their website is the announcement of  the passing of  PO3 George Schenck,  US Navy, Vietnam..... but that's not all...

Following that announcement are dozens of condolence messages – all from Patriot Guard Riders, including this one:

I am forever grateful for your service to our country. Your service and sacrifices will not be forgotten. You are a TRUE AMERICAN HERO. May you Forever Rest in Peace. Stand Down. Your mission is complete. U.S. Army Retired,Airborne

The PGR once again serves the USA and this veteran who served her. His stand-in “friends”.

Semper Fraternitus!

Surviving Loss

When I learned Brandon and Jennifer Harris were leaving Avondale UMC, I felt a genuine and profound sorrow deep in my gut. If you know me personally, you know I don't handle goodbyes well at all. I don't even say, "goodbye" on the phone. I've been known to stay at a job I hated for years because I couldn't bring myself to say goodbye to my co-workers. For me, GOODBYE means LOSS.

On some level, I know the intense sorrow I feel now will gradually fade, but I also know that will take time. It's the nature of the "grief process" that I have to endure until time (and some effort on my part) heals the hole left in my heart by the absence of someone I love.

Helen Kubler-Ross spent her whole life studying grief. She interviewed thousands of dying patients and their families. While her research involved death and dying, her findings are applicable to any loss, whether it's the death of a family member or a beloved pet, or loss of a limb or eyesight, or loss of a job or loss of mobility. It also applies to temporary or minor losses, such as children moving away, or going away to college (more commonly referred to as "empty nest syndrome"), divorce, or even losing a pastor you've come to love.

So, in an effort to help myself through this grief process, I'm revisiting Kubler-Ross's "stages of grief". Like back to nursing school.

Stage 1 is DENIAL. It's the stage I was in for several weeks when I learned Brandon might be leaving. I thought, surely not. He has been there only 6 years, and we are in the middle of a Capital Campaign. Surely the bishop will leave him there at least until that's over. Besides, Brandon has been responsible for so much growth and rejuvenation there. We NEED him, so It just can't happen.

Stage 2 is BARGAINING. I went through that too. BIG TIME. I prayed. "Dear Lord, If you let Brandon and Jennifer stay here, I'll never miss church again. I'll give more money to the church. I'll stop making excuses about why I can't sing in the choir. I'll 'greet my neighbor' with joy instead of reluctance. PLEASE let him stay here." I tried bargaining with the District Superintendent. That lasted about 3 seconds. So it was back to, "Dear Lord, please soften the heart of the Superintendent and the bishop. I'll do anything." I'm human, not Jesus. I couldn't bring myself to say, "Not my will, but THINE be done." Well, I might have said it, but I didn't honestly FEEL it.

Stage 3 is ANGER. For me, anger was mixed with the bargaining. I was angry at the District Superintendent, angry at the bishop, but also angry at myself. What did I personally do to cause this event? What could I have done different? Why couldn't I find the words or the actions or the prayer to make a difference? It's not fair! How in the world can this happen? Why NOW? The helplessness I felt in not being able to change the decision made me angry. I HATE feeling powerless!

Stage 4 is DEPRESSION. Depression is something I don't do well either. It's too painful. But it seems like that's the stage I'm moving into now. During the depression stage, I know I will be sad and discouraged. The plea in my prayers was useless. All the emotional investment and all the trust and all the faith and all the expectations I put into the relationship with Brandon and Jennifer is disintegrating. Disappearing before my very eyes. I am heartbroken. Hopeless... well, DEPRESSED.

Stage 5 is ACCEPTANCE, and Kubler-Ross adds INTEGRATION INTO A NEW LIFE STYLE. As I participate in the transition, I know action will help. It's hard for me to be depressed if I am active. Acceptance will happen when I can truthfully say to God, "I'm sorry I didn't trust You to know what is best. I relinquish my stubbornness and put my faith in You. Please continue to bless me and Avondale UMC." I know depression won't change the facts. And it doesn't help me or anyone else. If I'm to help myself, I have to accept the change and move forward. It doesn't mean I won't miss Brandon and Jennifer acutely and deeply, but it does mean a healthy transition.

There is a new pastor on the horizon, and I owe it to her (and frankly, to myself) to offer her my love and support. I'm sure it's difficult for her to leave the congregation she has loved the last 3 years and come into an unknown environment at Avondale UMC. That goodbye is probably just as hard for her as this one is for me. But fortunately for me, I have a loving and supportive church family, and I know God will help us help each other through this goodbye, and move forward with that same love and support for Malinda and Disney Weaver. And most importantly, move forward WITH JOY.

Goodbye Wildflowers

I just rid my front yard of its wildflower garden. Violets, clover, marjoram, dandelions, and some purple flower that grows on a little stalk. According to my health app, I walked 1.5 miles around the yard in the process.

Many people look forward to Spring, so they can do what I just did. I don't. I don't particularly mind mowing the lawn, especially in this weather, but I definitely don't find it ENJOYABLE.

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking I have 2 grown sons. Well, that's an entirely 'nother story, and besides, last year, for Mother's Day, one of them  bought me a marvelous self-propelled, key-start mower. I really DO love my mower... if only I didn't have to walk around the yard behind it.

So, speaking of grown sons... two of their childhood friends now own landscaping companies. What a great opportunity that might be to get my lawn mowed by one of the boys that spent many of his childhood years at my table, in my car going to movies or to the lake, or in my basement, playing music.

So I called one of them. The conversation went something like this:

C.W. : HEY, Miz B! Geez, it's been a long time! How in the world are you? 

Me:  I'm great! I was sorry to hear about your divorce, and I've been thinking about you. I hope you are well also.

C.W.: Yeah. The b*@*h took me for everything I had. I'm having to work seven days a week now. 

Me: Oh that's sad, C.W.. I hear you're in the landscaping business.

C.W.: Well, sorta. When I can get that work. Mostly I just mow lawns, but hey... it buys groceries!

Me: That's actually what I was calling about. What would you charge me to come mow my front yard? 

C.W.: Oh, Miz B, I couldn't charge you, but I am booked solid through the weekend!

Me: What about sometime next week? How much?

C.W. I really couldn't charge you anything to mow your yard. Not after all you did for me and my brother when we were kids.

Me: Awww. That's so sweet of you to remember. Those were some hard, but good times, weren't they?

C.W. Yes they were! Got some great memories. 

Me: Anyway, I would be glad to pay you to mow the yard. I will have to pay somebody. Might as well be you.

C.W. Nah. I wouldn't feel right charging you.

Me: OK. well, come over and mow it for free. I'll cook you dinner.

C.W. I wish I could afford to do it, Miz B, but I can't mow for free. Just can't pay the bills that way.

OH EM GEE!

And THAT's why I mowed down the wildflowers myself.

Love Thy Neighbor as Thyself

can  be one of the toughest commandments to follow, especially if your "neighbor" has Alzheimer's Disease, or another form of dementia.

From the neighbor's point of view, research shows that dementia is THE MOST FEARED illness of people over 65, because it threatens the person's identity as SELF and his role as a productive, contributing member of the community. In Jesus' time, those with leprosy were not allowed into the temple, and were isolated from social relationships. Sadly, the shame and stigma often associated with dementia can lead to the same sort of isolation. We refer to the person with dementia as "a burden on his son", or "an empty shell". In our society, ceasing to be a productive member of society marks us as a "failure" at successful aging. Too often we fail the test of loving our neighbor by treating the neighbor with dementia as someone who has already passed away.

We don't bring them to church because "he doesn't get anything out of it anymore". We don't visit, because "she doesn't know who I am anymore", or "I don't know what to say to him". We leave him alone with his daughter until she is too exhausted and isolated to go on anymore, and then put him in a nursing home, where he can be "properly cared for".

I'm through preaching, because I'm preaching more to myself than to you. In researching what I intended to be an article on the medical aspects of Alzheimer's, I realized there is not much we can do about developing the disease; but there is VERY MUCH we can do about our attitude and loving behavior toward our neighbor with dementia.

Let's think about "friendship", and how we form friends. Our friends are those with whom we have years of shared experiences. Over time, the shared experiences become shared memories. A community is a web of friendships. How can I be a "friend" to someone who no longer remembers the story of our friendship, or who may not even recognize my name or my face?

We are unwilling to give our friends permission to enter into the world of memory loss. We greet them in a loud voice with a string of questions. "Do you know who I am?"  "What day is it?" " What did you have for breakfast?" Consciously or not, we are attempting to pull them back from memory loss and orient them to the cognitive universe they formerly inhabited.   John T. McFadden, M. Div.

It has been said that people might not remember what you said, or what you did, but they will remember how you made them feel. Never is this truer than for the person with Alzheimer's. We should interact with them in ways that bring them comfort, joy, and freedom from anxiety.

When we visit our friend with dementia, we should  greet her gently and positively. Do not ask, "Do you know who I am?" but rather announce who you are. "Hello. It's your friend [Ginger]. You look good today." Even these few words may not be fully understood, and she might not recognize you either, but you have established a positive emotional tone.

It is pointless to try to discuss world affairs or politics. On the contrary, because of your years of friendship, you know your friend's interests, passions, and things that bring her joy. You probably know many things about her she no longer remembers about herself.

One article suggests that we listen to a piece of music the friend liked, take a walk together, or look through photos or a family album. Do NOT engage in a game of twenty questions, because that can cause great anxiety. So, when you point to a picture, do not ask, "Who is this?" Rather ask: "What do you think he is doing?"

Will your friend with dementia know who you are? Perhaps not, at least by name. But this does not mean that your friend does not know you as one who cares, and who brings comfort and pleasure. The soul continues to know those it cherishes, even if the brain can no longer supply a cognitive context.  --John T. McFadden, M. Div.

Pastor John's Great Medical Journal

Until about 100 years ago, the church was inextricably involved in health care. From the time Jesus healed the sick and cared for the infirm, down through the ages, Christians have taken care of their flocks. 

As recently as 50 years ago, many hospitals were still owned and run by church organizations. Here in Birmingham, there was Carraway Methodist, St. Vincent's Catholic, Baptist Princeton and Baptist Montclair, and Holy Name of Jesus Hospitals. Almost every large hospital was church-owned. So involvement of the religious community in healthcare goes 'way, 'way back. When medicine became too expensive for the churches to support, private companies and conglomerates bought out the hospitals, and today very few church hospitals remain. But there was a time...

In the mid-1700s, a certain young preacher rebelled against doctors and modern medicine. While he was involved with saving souls, he was just as concerned with healing bodies. He was to become one of the most renowned healers of his day.

Preacher John rejected the "doctors" of his day, and looked to Nature and natural cures for most diseases. A writer as well as a preacher, he published many papers and books, but his best-selling book was titled, "Primitive Physick or An Easy and Natural Method of Curing Most Diseases".  He spent years gathering  remedies and treatment methods from people who had used them. Remedies that were tried and true. 

John looked upon doctors as "Men of Learning", but who inverted healing. John thought the doctors laid aside experience and relied on theories. More concerned with how the body and its parts worked than in healing the person, the doctors of his time speculated and mixed herbs and used exotic treatments, "'til at length Physick became an abstruse science, quite out of the reach of ordinary men... They filled their writings with abundance of technical terms, utterly unintelligible to plain men" (which might be even more true today). John saw the person as more than a broken bone, or a kidney stone, and felt one's first aid kit should contain natural and readily available medicines that everyone could obtain and use. His idea was that wellness meant more than just absence of illness. It involved the "whole" person.

"Primitive Physick" contains numerous natural remedies for almost every known malady of the time - from BOILS (Apply a little Venice Turpentine; OR, a plaster of honey and wheat-flower; OR of figs...) to CORNS (Apply fresh every morning the yeast of small beer, spread on a rag; OR boil the juice of radishes, 'till it is thick enough to spread as a plaster. Shift it as it grows dry; OR apply fresh ivy leaves daily, and in fifteen days they will drop out.) to VERTIGO (Take a vomit or two; OR use the cold bath for a month; OR on a May morning, about sunrise, snuff up daily the dew that is on mallow leaves; OR take every morning half a dram of mustard seed.)

To cure convulsive asthma, "dry and powder a toad. Make it into small pills, and take one every hour until the convulsions cease." To cure baldness, "rub the part morning and evening with onions, till it is red; and rub it afterwards with honey." In fact, Primitive Physick actually includes 18 cures for baldness.

The book includes instructions and cures  for "An Easy and Safe Vomit", "Involuntary Urine", "To Increase Milk", "An Old Stubborn Pain in the Back", "An Easy Purge" and "A Stronger Purge".  It gives child-rearing instructions (Move over, Dr. Spock!) "No child should ever be swathed tight. It lays the foundation for many diseases." "Tis best to wean a child at about seven months old. They should lie in the cradle at least a year." "Parents should dip their children in cold water every morning, until they are three quarters old." "Milk, milk porridge, and water-gruel are the proper breakfast for children."

John also  became interested in the curative powers of electricity, and his shock treatments were the forerunner of some of our modern electrical medicine: electroconvulsive shock therapy (EST), and maybe even cardioversion (the defibrillator)... but that was another book, and it didn't sell as well.

This turned out more a book report than an article, but I was so fascinated with what I read about it that I bought the book. Couldn't put it down. As a Congregational Health Nurse, I found the concept of healing the body along with the spirit and the soul right down my alley, so to speak. Furthermore, it was fascinating that this young man of faith would be so keenly interested in healing physical and mental illnesses, not to mention that this book, of all the books he wrote, was his very best seller. 

"Primitive Physick" by John Benjamin Wesley... and, as Paul Harvey always said,  now you know the rest of the story. 

Poor Homeless, Hungry, Helpless Veterans

This will not be a popular post, so be forewarned. My disclaimer, as always, is that the opinions herein expressed are MINE, and nobody else's. Reading is your decision.

Everyone who knows me knows I'm a bit of a nonconformist. But I'm a peaceful sort, and if I don't agree with you, I tend to just keep my mouth shut. You are entitled to your opinions, even if they're bigoted, biased or downright absurd. I don't like arguing.

The other thing everyone knows is that I'm a U.S. Army veteran. In my spare time, I advocate for, work for, and volunteer for  veterans organizations and for veterans. And aside from veterans, I work with "the homeless" in various places and for several organizations that serve the homeless here in Birmingham.

I also hate public SOAPBOXING, so am doing that here, in my little blog rant world.
Now then... 

For the last 60 or so years, the Call of the Union has been, "Everything that hasn't been handed to African/Americans, and everything any of them hasn't accomplished, and any unemployment or hunger they suffer is MY FAULT." ("MY" refers to any WASP, but mostly to us Southern WASPs.) Well, black lives DO matter. As do white lives, blue lives, yellow lives, and all other human lives, whatever the color of their skin or uniforms. As Forest Gump said, "THAT'S ALL I HAVE TO SAY ABOUT THAT." 

Suddenly, or maybe gradually and I just missed it, the Call of the Union has changed to, "Everything that hasn't been handed to veterans, and everything any of them hasn't accomplished, and any unemployment or hunger or homelessness they suffer is YOUR FAULT." (This "YOUR" refers to anyone who is a non-veteran; OR any veteran who owns an eating establishment who hasn't opened it up for free to any hungry  veteran, an apartment building who hasn't opened it up for free to homeless veterans, or owns a business who hasn't hired veterans whether they're qualified  or not, and whether they have any work ethic or not.) I don't fit any of those categories, so it's not MY fault this time.

I can't speak for the whole United States, but I CAN speak fairly knowledgeably about the veterans and the homeless in Birmingham. And there are many. As some of you know, I've had conversations with the homeless in and around Avondale Park, and with the homeless around the downtown area (Church of the Reconciler neighborhood). THESE are the truly homeless. There are various circumstances that caused it, and a few of these are veterans, but not many. 

WOAH! WAIT! "...a few of these are veterans...?" Yep. VERY few. Why? Because Birmingham has about a dozen resources for homeless veterans. All of these resources provide the honorably-discharged veteran (with a legitimate DD-214) a clean, warm place to live, 3 meals a day, and job training. They also provide transportation to and from the V.A. Hospital when needed.  

So, why aren't ALL veterans NOT homeless here? Well, there are several reasons, and here are the most common I've run across in the last couple of years:

1. They aren't veterans. They are pretending to be, or saying they are, because VETERAN is an emotional buzz-word,  and appeals to people who then feel patriotic and sorry for them and give them money.

2. They were dishonorably discharged and don't qualify. They stole stuff, they lost their temper and  injured somebody on our side, they did drugs and failed rehab 3 times, they failed to go to work (AWOL), or went to the job site, but sold supplies or equipment or vehicles that weren't theirs to sell, and were kicked out. (Just like a civilian job would have done.)

3. They were honorably discharged, but aren't willing to conform to the rules of the resources - ie, no drinking, no drugs, 10:00pm curfew, get up every morning, be willing to "help around the house" - chores such as cooking, cleaning up, mopping, etc., be willing to train for a job of some sort, and no overnight guests in the home. In other words, they trade the security and comfort of a home for the freedom that homelessness provides. It's THEIR DECISION! (Just like a disgruntled spouse might have done.)

Since we also have many homeless shelters here that don't require veteranship, number 3 applies to most of the rest of the homeless. It's essentially their choice. More than once, I've offered to give rides to a shelter to some of the homeless in Avondale Park, and to a man -and one woman- they would rather sleep in the bitter cold pavillion than have to go somewhere they can't drink and have to "work". And one of them told me, when I tried to give him a can of vienna sausages, "Ms Ginger, anyone hungry here is by choice or lying. There are 3 places within walking distance that serve meals 7 days a week. Don't fall for that. They're looking for booze money."

But I digress...

Let me address the jobless veteran  problem:

The veterans who don't work, or don't want to work are, by definition, unemployed. Veterans are citizens like everyone else. They are human. They are... well... like YOU. The only REAL difference between you and me is that I signed the line and went to war for my employment. I was very lucky in that my wartime "job" was much like my civilian job. I was a nurse, and when I got back, I was still a nurse. That fact doesn't apply to all veterans. For example, if Sgt Smith was a munitions expert in the military, that job isn't usually available in the civilian world. So, if he chooses to leave military employment, he will probably have to retrain for a different job in the civilian workplace. If a military member plans to quit her or his military job, he or she needs to think seriously about what job the future holds. My daddy always said, "It's easier to GET a job if you HAVE a job." Maybe one should see what is available out there BEFORE he/she quits the current job, just like most normal civilians do.

In and around Birmingham, we do have several job fairs every year. In 2015 there were 6 that I know of and 5 I was involved in. Those five job fairs had 30 or more employers that wanted and targeted veterans for employment. Some of them said that the work ethic of veterans, along with the general physical fitness of veterans, made them very desirable for their job openings. These job fairs were advertised on Al.com, on the radio, and in local veterans newsletters. Before 3 of those job fairs, I went to various places that veterans hang out and posted signs, talked to people, talked to spouses, emailed veterans I know are looking for jobs, etc... and it was a total waste of my time. For those 3 job fairs, we had less than a dozen veterans show up, and most of those  were from the veteran shelters that provide job training.  

Folks, YOU CAN LEAD A HORSE TO WATER, BUT YOU CAN'T MAKE HIM DRINK! At what point do people take ANY responsibility for their own situation???

So it comes down to this: 

I am SICK to PUKING of some people USING their veteran status to glean sympathy. I am even SICKER of some people using their veteran status as an excuse for homelessness, hunger, unemployment or dishonesty. The V.A. and other organizations (Wounded Warriors, Three Hots and a Cot, Operation Wounded Warrior, Homes for our Troops, No Excuses Charitable Fund, etc) gone OVER and ABOVE in providing veterans with all kinds of benefits civilians don't get. They can get free health care, and then whine about how long it takes to get an appointment. They can get a free college education (G.I. Bill), and whine about unemployment. If their "disability" is legitimate, mental or physical, they can get free money for the rest of their lives, and whine about being hungry. They can get free housing and meals but prefer the freedom to whine about "poor me. I'm homeless."

And while I'm ranting, I might as well rant about all the employed, retired, homed in suburbia, and well-fed veterans who aren't interested in knowing what is going on in the rest of the veteran world. The ones who go about their civilian jobs, their lawns, their health clubs, their lives, but don't want any part of the numerous veterans organizations that DO keep up with what is going on, and that help veterans and their families  in so many ways I can't even begin to list all the ways: The VFW, the American Legion, Amvets, etc. 

Let me reiterate that I'm talking Alabama here. I don't have any information about other states, so if you are living in Oklahoma or somewhere reading this, it might not apply to veterans in your state. I'm sorry. I'm not accountable for the rest of the U.S.

OK. I'm done. For now...

Ethical Question

I don't know why I feel compelled to write this, other than I see so many articles and memes about paying McDonalds workers as if burger flipping is a skilled lifetime career. And also because the last 2 jobs I had (for a total of 15 years) before I retired seldom provided raises, and when there WAS a raise, it was 15-25 cents/hour... not even CLOSE to the cost of living. More of a token raise. I wanted to say, "Poor ole company. If 25 cents is what you think I'm worth, or what you can afford, maybe you ought to keep it.  After taxes, I won't net more than $100 a year anyway.

Where was I going with this?

Oh yes! I remember...  There is  a saying that goes something like, "Do something you love, and you'll never work a day in your life."

Nursing was not what I wanted to do. NOT my idea of a fun job, and certainly not anything I loved.  I remember one job that every day, when I got to the parking deck, I would begin shaking, crying, and feeling nauseated. It took all the courage and strength I could muster to walk the quarter mile from my car to the time clock. Hate doesn't begin to describe my feelings about that job, or many others I've had. They paid great, but boyohboy, were they HORRIBLE jobs. Horrible work environment, horrible supervisors/bosses, horrible hours.

Then I discovered teaching. OMG! I LOVED it! It didn't pay very much, so I still had to work some weekend shifts over at the Brookwood torture chamber, but Monday through Friday, I was in job heaven!

With that in mind, think about this ethical question:

If you come to work at my McDonalds franchise as a crew member, and you know the pay is $8.25/hour, how hard will you work for that money? 

I'm not making any value judgements here, but I ask you to really think about that. If it were ME, I have to say I would work every minute, every hour. My inner adult requires me to do my best - whether it's as a McDonalds crew member, or as a nurse at Brookwood Prison, or as a teacher at Virginia College... regardless of the pay. I knew what the pay was when I took the job, and I agreed to give an honest hour's work for THAT pay. 

OK. Now, what if there was a miracle, and all of a sudden, the pay DOUBLED? What if the McDonalds crew member job now pays $16/hour? Will I work  twice as hard for double the pay? I WILL? Then I was lying when I said I would give it my "all" at $8.25/hour, wasn't I?  

Will I work twice as hard at Brookwood Iron Maiden for $60/hour? Well, no. And not for $100/hour. I'm already at my limit. But at Virginia College? For $50/hour? Again, no. I'm already "working" at maximum capacity, but enjoying every second of every minute. 

If I cheat my employer of my time and talent because of the pay, then how ethical am I? I contend that if I value myself at all, and I agree to work, whatever I do, I will do just the same for that pay, or double that pay. If McDonalds pays $8 or $16 or $25 or $50/hour, the worker will still do the same work, at the same pace, because that's who he/she is. 

So you say, "It's better to cry in a BMW than on a bicycle." 

I say, "Crying sucks the same, wherever you do it."

Hate and Fear - It's for Everyone.

I am not on a bandwagon here. Like some of my peers, I have mixed feelings, and I don't have any answers. This is just one woman's perspective.

"He who doesn't understand history is doomed to repeat it" is a familiar statement these days. So let me give you some historical facts:

Pre-WWII, many Jews, and other groups in Germany were being abused, garnered in remote camps, starved and displaced. "Travesty" and "tragedy" doesn't even begin to describe the horrors perpetrated by Adolph Hitler and his henchmen. As my brother, red-eyed and shaking,  said when we exited the Holocaust Museum in Washington D.C., "Is there any way I can UNSEE what I've just seen?"

From 1938 to 1941, the world had an inkling of what was going on over there in Germany, but nobody - not one country - organized any specific rescue plan for the victims. In 1941,  President Roosevelt instituted a policy for refugees/displaced persons to come to the U.S., but that didn't happen. In short, by 1952, 137,450 Jewish refugees had been rehomed here, over a fourteen year period. That is not quite 10,000 per year. You can read the details here, and I hope you do:  

http://www.ushmm.org/wlc/en/article.php?ModuleId=10007094

But here is one quote from the article:

"While some American activists sincerely intended to assist refugees, serious obstacles to any relaxation of US immigration quotas included public opposition to immigration during a time of economic depression, xenophobia, and antisemitic feelings in both the general public and among some key government officials."

Now, we are in the throes of another world refugee crisis.  Is history repeating itself?

I PERSONALLY understand the situation we are in. I am retired, so I know the limitations and problems of surviving with limited resources (Social Security), limited and expensive healthcare (Medicare), fuel costs (including not just gas for the car, but gas and electricity for my home, which still has 5 years left on the mortgage), food costs, and medication costs. I know I'm better off than the vast majority of retired people here, though, because I have almost $14,000 in my 401k, and over $2000 in my savings account. Most have no savings or retirement plan at all. 

I'm sharing those personal details so you know I'm not sitting up in Mt Brook or somewhere, preaching from an elite perspective. I'm not homeless, either. I'm in between those extremes, like most everybody else in America.

So, here we are, still in economic depression, still sporting xenophobia (fear of people from other countries, particularly those from Syria), and now with antimuslim feelings "in both the general public and among some key government officials."

After the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, the United States rounded up everyone of Japanese origin and herded them to encampments. Why? Because we were afraid the American Japanese would turn on us and begin eliminating our other citizenry. Can you say, "kneejerk reaction"?

We haven't started displacing our Muslim citizens into camps yet, thank God (or Allah), but almost everyone over the age of 3 is terrified of them. 

Many governors, including Alabama's, have said, "Syrian refugees are not allowed in my state," as if there is a Great Wall around the states with armed guards checking drivers licenses or something when people cross the State line. Last week, when I went to Tennessee, there was no wall, but there WAS a sign that said, "Welcome to Tennessee". When I came home, there still was no wall, no armed guards, no "Alabama-Resident-Checkin". There was a HUGE sign that said, "Welcome to Alabama the Beautiful". Beautiful for ME, maybe. But beautiful for everyone coming into Alabama, especially if they're not a bonafide resident? I'm not so sure.

I'm as afraid of terrorists as the next citizen, but I'm equally wary/afraid of any people wandering around  parking lots, unfamiliar cars parked on my dead-end street, and knocks on my door when I'm not expecting visitors. I glance in my back seat before I get in my car, I get my key out of my purse before I leave the building, and I try not to park next to vans without windows. I'm not paranoid. I'm just aware.

I admit I'm not afraid of the Muslim attendants at the Shell station or the Marathon station in my neighborhood. I'm not afraid of the Muslim customers at our Brown Bag mission (incidentally, it wasn't Muslim customers that shot the lady at Four Winds. It was white male customers, who had also attended services at the church). I'm not afraid of the Muslims that live behind me, whose children come out to pet Major Big Dog when I walk him around the block. I wasn't afraid of the Muslims who were eating dinner at Ming's Cuisine last month. (Didn't know they liked Chinese food. I guess some of them do.) I'm not afraid of the Muslims shopping at Winn Dixie. And I'm not afraid of the Muslims walking around the Galleria. Do you think I should be? Then let me ask you this:

How can you identify a Muslim if she/he isn't wearing the traditional/cultural headwear? How can you identify Syrians from those from any other Middle Eastern country? If I'm afraid of Muslims, should I also be afraid of Baptists? What about the Westboro Baptists? How do I differentiate between them and the Vestavia Baptists? What about Japanese? They might be carrying a WWII grudge because of their grandparents. Then there are the Jews we didn't let take refuge here 70 years ago. Oh my goodness! How do I identify THEM, if their name doesn't end with -stein?

And, since I'm Caucasian, maybe I should be afraid of ANYONE with dark skin, be they of Middle Eastern, African, Israeli, Pakistani or South American descent. 

In fact, maybe I should stay home, lock my doors, and watch out for the Mexicans across the street.