Common Sense

I have sworn off of political commentary on my Facebook page, but not on my blog. I question if what I am writing about today is political commentary. I prefer to think of it as common sense and since I have not sworn off of that I will continue writing.

Gun Control.

Now that I have your attention, now that I have riled you up, I’ll promise right off the bat that I do not, I repeat, do not want to deprive you of your right to own a gun. What I’m writing about today is James Holmes and why he had an AR-15 semi-automatic assault weapon with 100 rounds of ammunition. If you own an assault weapon then I retract my earlier promise, I do want to take away your gun.

I am not an expert on Constitutional Law, but I did Google the Second Amendment and noted that it was adopted in 1791 and reads: A well regulated militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed. Okay, here comes the common sense thing – in 1791 who could have fathomed our current-day semi-automatic assault weapon?

What I’m trying to say is that the citizens of the United States of America do not need to keep and bear assault weapons. We do not need them to deer hunt. We do not need them for competitive shooting. We do not need them to protect our lives and our property. Who does need an assault weapon? Someone like James Holmes. Someone who wants to kill a lot of people as quickly as possible.

Another reason I’m writing this goes back to Facebook. After the shooting there were many posts asking for prayers for the victims and the good people of Aurora, Colorado. I think prayers are fine, but not one single Facebook post on my page said anything about the gun laws that allowed this person to buy an AR-15 semi-automatic assault weapon in the first place.

Keep your guns for sport and protection, but please let’s find a way to keep assault weapons out of the hands of people who would use them in a manner our Second Amendment writers could not have imagined.

I am certain I have sparked controversy. I am certain many of my readers are against gun control. I am certain many will see this as Democrat vs. Republican, liberal vs. conservative, left vs. right. I am certain that if changes are not made there will be more massacres. It is common sense.

Apple

I’ve been thinking a lot about my mother this week. She died in 1991 at the age of fifty-seven, but before she left us she was a wonderful grandmother to my daughters. My oldest daughter Courtney, the oldest grandchild, had the pleasure of knowing her the best. Courtney visited me these past two weeks with her daughter, the first and so far the only grandchild. We reminisced about my mother, about how much she loved Courtney and about how much Courtney loved her.

Courtney recalled making a childhood announcement that when she grew up she wanted to marry MaMaw. No amount of reasoning could dissuade her from this idea. It wasn’t until my mother asked, “But who would fix PaPaw’s dinner?” that Courtney finally realized she could not marry the person she loved most in the world. Fortunately, she later found someone she loved as much.

I reminded Courtney of an incident that occurred at the airport when she was about five years old. As we boarded the plane for home after visiting my parents Courtney was bereft about leaving. She sobbed and wailed in a most melodramatic fashion during our goodbyes and the entire flight. I’m sure the other airline passengers were happy when we were no longer sharing cabin space. I was excruciatingly embarrassed, but now I find myself secretly hoping that my granddaughter will have similar feelings upon leaving me one day.

The two weeks I spent with my grandbaby were priceless. At seven months old I doubt she remembers me from previous visits so we had to go through the getting to know each other process again. On the second day, when she gave me an ear to ear grin as I got her out of her crib, my heart filled so that I truly did feel my chest expand. We got along just fine, she and I, while her mother sequestered herself to study for the New York bar exam. Every day I learned a little more about this precious child. She laughs at the pat-a-cake song (or my singing), she doesn’t like to nap unless we are strolling through my neighborhood, and she enjoys a frequent change of scenery. I will see her again in September and I can’t wait to discover more about her.

The love between a grandmother and a granddaughter is a special thing. I had my Big Red and my daughters had their MaMaw. I have learned from the best. My grandmother name is Apple (because I am a Granny Smith); I hope I’m a good one.

Who Are These Women?

My college sorority reunion is less than a month away. This is one of my favorite annual events, only surpassed by Christmas and my beach birthday extravaganza. It is also blog fodder this time every year. I love to reminisce about those coming of age college years and the women who saw each other through it all. I love that we pick up right where we left off thirty-plus years ago without a hitch. I love that no matter how different we are in our views concerning politics, religion, sexual orientation, and/or fashion sense we still love and respect each other. I love that I know these women and get to spend a weekend with them every July.

The list of this year’s attendees just came out and I am surprised to see quite a few names I don’t recognize. Who are these women? Every year our circle of sisters broadens to include those from years before and after my time at dear old SHSU. It would be silly to think that only those from my class should be invited, but it is also my nature to want my dearest, closest friends in attendance. Who will share in my glee as we discuss mixers at the fire tower or parties at Hard Times if these places were relics of the past by the time some of these girls (I mean, women) pledged? I may not be the only one thinking this as the reunion nears and the guest list is circulated.

The younger set is probably wondering if the oldsters will stay up past ten o’clock, and the oldsters are probably wondering if the really oldsters will need assistance on the cabin stairs. And we may all be wondering – will we have anything in common?

Yes, we will. I promise. I learned a valuable lesson last year from a newcomer to the reunion, a woman who was in and out of the sorority picture before I even graduated from high school. Ginny Pat and I arrived early at the lake cabin and my first thought upon meeting her was, “Poor woman, she’s not going to know a soul, how can she possibly have a good time.” (Sorry Ginny Pat, but I really did have that thought.)

Well, she showed me! She was the life of the party. One of the most outgoing and interesting women I’ve had the pleasure to meet. She proved that sharing experiences, like going to Hard Times or the Jolly Fox, didn’t make us sisters. She proved that sharing knowledge, like who dated which Sigma Chi, didn’t form lifelong bonds. It didn’t matter that we never went on a “wine-run” together. It didn’t matter that I never held her hair away from her face as she threw up in the toilet after being “over-served” at the Sound Machine. What mattered was our connection to something bigger than us.

If you are reading this you probably think I am going to wax poetic about the sorority, its values, its esoteric lessons, yada-yada-yada. Well, there is that, but what makes us sisters is our willingness to accept each other for who we were then and who we are now. Our eagerness to know each other as grown-ass women with minds and hearts and souls and lots and lots of life experience that shaped and molded us into unique and really awesome women. Yes, we shared a history of sorts. We probably all detested that horrible red carpeting in the living room. We all had to use the back stairs while pledging and sit while smoking cigarettes. But somehow, some way, something in those experiences shaped us into who we are today. Somehow, some way, we all owe part of who we are to those years we spent in the Chi Omega house.

We will come together next month as old friends and as new friends and we will all leave as dear friends, as sisters – just ask Ginny Pat.

Father's Day

I’m thinking a lot about dads this week because of Father’s Day. I know some pretty amazing dads beginning with my own father. He was a strict man, but a loving one. He believed strongly in “spare the rod and spoil the child,” but when I think of my father I can’t recall one spanking. Don’t think for a second it was because I didn’t receive my fair share of corporal punishment. I just can’t recall any specific spanking because that was just part of my childhood, a happy childhood I must add. If/when I did something wrong I got a talking to and if the transgression was worthy of it a spanking usually followed. Did I consider this abuse? Of course not. I considered it a deterrent to repeating wrong behavior. Did I think my father was mean? No, in fact, I knew he loved me unconditionally. I tried extra hard to be a good child so as not to disappoint him. Even when I was well past the age of spankings I was dissuaded from bad behavior because I didn’t want to see the look of disappointment in my father’s eyes. I miss him terribly and thank him for loving me and raising me to be who I am today.

My husband, the father of my children, was not the strict disciplinarian my father was, yet our children were well behaved and respected him. He is the best father I could imagine for our daughters. Gentle and wise, kind and patient, always giving of himself, he is the “good cop” to my “bad cop” when it comes to parenting. He is the parent my children seek out first in a crisis or with good news and I love him all the more because of it. They know he loves them more than anything or anyone in this world. They know that is what it means to be a good parent.

There is a new father in my life, my daughter’s husband, the father of my six month old granddaughter. I can already tell he will be an excellent father. The way he lights up when he sees her, and vice-versa. The way she calms when he sings to her and the way he sings to her. The cute games they play – the peek-a-boo-where’s-Evelyn-blanket game. And the way he is making a secure home and future for her. I know my granddaughter, like me and her mother, hit the daddy-jackpot.

What do these men have in common? Each with their own parenting styles, each with their own ways and beliefs. They share the most important quality a father can possess. The thing that makes them all stellar fathers is the love and respect they have for the mother of their children. On this Father’s Day I honor you and I thank you, the three most important fathers in my life.

I am a Writer

I am a writer. There, I said it. It is official. I’ve even changed my Facebook job status from retired to writer so it must be true. I am a writer. I write. It is what writers do. We write. I write.

Why is saying, “I am a writer” such a difficult thing to do? Is it because my fifth grade teacher made me feel like a loser? Is it because I think it sounds pompous? Is it because of the wee small voice in my head that says ever so snarkily – “Yeah, right.” Is it because I make up words like snarkily? Maybe it is hard to say it because once I declare it I will have to make it so. I will have to actually show up and do the work rather than just think about it.

Writing is now my job. It is what I do. I will go to my office every day and put in my time. I will write. I will not check Facebook updates or email. I will not read blogs or cruise websites. I will write. I will set goals and meet them. I will be proud of myself. I will show that mean fifth grade teacher that she was wrong. I will write. I will hush that snarky voice in my head. I will write. I am a writer. Writers write.

Fifty-seven

Yesterday was the anniversary of my mother’s death. She died on May 7, 1991 at the age of fifty-seven. I will be fifty-seven next year. I will breathe a sigh of relief when I turn fifty-eight. There will be something to surviving my fifty-seventh year. I’m not normally superstitious, but I’ll admit – fifty-seven freaks me out a bit.

I am so young (I think I am!) and healthy (my doctor says I am!). I’m sure my mother felt the same. What am I doing to protect myself from the perils of fifty-seven? I quit smoking on the day my mother was diagnosed with lung cancer. Cold turkey. Watching your mother waste away in M.D. Anderson Hospital is the best cure for kicking the smoking habit I’ve found. Forget the patch, I’ve discovered a better way. My husband quit with me. (He also stopped riding his motorcycle after my brother died in a motorcycle accident, but that’s another story.) I see my doctor regularly, not waiting and worrying, and putting it off like mother did. How long did she have the big C before she sought medical treatment? Her last excuse was she didn’t want to ruin Christmas. She went to the doctor after the first of January and was dead by May 7th. Four months of hell.

Perhaps she knew and was afraid to face it. Of course she knew. Part of me wants to be mad at her. Mad at her for leaving me, leaving my daughters, leaving my father, my siblings, my nieces and nephews, the great-grandchildren she would one day have. But you can’t get mad at my mother; she was too nice, too kind, too gentle.

She shouldn’t have smoked. She began at an impossibly young age and smoked a lot, refusing to believe the Surgeon General’s warning applied to her. Doctors used to say it was good for you to smoke. She even switched to menthol cigarettes when she had a cold or a sore throat. She said the menthol was soothing.

She was a nicotine addict. She was fifty-seven. She was my mother. I miss her.

I’ll be fifty-seven next year.

Sight

It doesn’t come as a surprise to me that Big Red restored my vision; she’s been helping me to see for a long time.

On what would have been her 105th birthday my Uncle Steve, the executor of her estate, made a cash distribution to her heirs. We were all grateful and surprised by the unexpected gift. On a family e-mail several of my cousins, aunts and uncles commented on what they were going to do with the boon. There was talk of reupholstering dining room chairs and buying new shoes. I put my check in the bank. I felt that my always frugal grandmother would have approved.

Right about this time I found out I needed cataract surgery. Health insurance covers the procedure, but not the new corrective lenses that would give me twenty-twenty vision, something I have not had since I was nine years old. What to do? I didn’t have several thousand dollars just sitting around the house, but I did have my benefaction from Big Red. Thinking about using her money to restore my vision brought back a memory and made me smile.

When I first went to live with her in my junior year of college I was wearing the old-fashioned hard contact lenses. Wearing them was like putting a plastic tiddlywink in one’s eye. Soft contacts had recently come on the market, but were cost prohibitive for me trying to finish school on a budget. After yet another day spent in a dark room with a cold wash cloth over my eyes suffering from a scratched cornea courtesy of the hard lenses Big Red announced she was buying me a pair of soft lenses.

“I promised the Lord that if I won at Bingo I’d give the money to charity and I think your eyes are a good charity,” she said after winning $1,000 the night before at the church hall.

I took her up on her offer. Little did I know that was just the beginning of gaining sight from my beloved grandmother. Over the next thirty-plus years she taught me how to look at the world. I learned to see my life, my home, my family, my friends, my career as she would have seen them. I’ve asked myself on many an occasion, how would Big Red do this, handle this, react to this. I became a better person by examining things through her eyes.

She is gone, but she is still giving me sight – both literally and figuratively. I now have twenty-twenty vision afforded because of her monetary legacy and I have the gift of her love and her example for how to live my life. Sight is a wonderful thing.