Recently a teacher lamented the fact that we had no space-age “hero” biographies in our library. Upon searching the shelves I discovered that indeed, she was right. I had no books about astronauts or modern research scientists. It is only our second year in existence and building a solid, balanced collection takes at least five years. Needless to say I went straight to my order list and added a few books to my biography collection.
The whole question made me ponder the idea of a hero. How do we define it? Who qualifies as a hero? I tend to agree with the teacher’s judgment that pop singers and sports figures should not fall into the category of heroes—at least not for what they do on the stage or on the field. Some of them, however, strive to spend the fortunes they acquire through fame to better the lives of others. Does that not make them heroes? It certainly does to the people they help.
Webster online defines a hero as : a mythological or legendary figure often of divine descent endowed with great strength or ability; an illustrious warrior; a man admired for his achievements and noble qualities; one that shows great courage. Webster does not seem to apply the word hero to women. Apparently if I want to consider a female for the role, I’ll have to find the definition of heroine. Ah, but I digress. Second meaning is from literature: : the principal male character in a literary or dramatic work. The third definition refers to that rather large sandwich that we can purchase at any number of popular alternative fast food restaurants. The fourth, however, throws a monkey wrench in the lofty classification of hero: an object of extreme admiration and devotion : idol. Apparently even Webster is reduced to including any number of pop and sports icons in the category of hero.
No where in any of these definitions did it mention scholarly knowledge, volunteer service, living an admirable, worthwhile life. That’s so sad. Who should today’s hero’s be? Those who can catch a football and run 80 yards down the field to the end zone, behind countless blocks of their teammates. Or perhaps those whose doubtful voice, but awesome good looks, propel them to a lifetime of stage appearances before screaming fans.
At reference.com, I learned that Mikhail Kalashnikov was recently named a Hero of Russia. In case the name is unfamiliar to you, he invented the AK-47 assault rifle, referred to around the globe as “the world’s most lethal weapon.” President Dmitry Medvedev praised him for creating “the brand that every Russian is proud of.” Yikes! I understand guns. We have them in our house. My husband is a member of the NRA. But what purpose does this gun serve except to kill or maim, rapidly and without discretion?
Can we say that your perspective determines who the heroes are, that standards do not apply? In that case, let me tell you about my heroes. Bill and Betty were ordinary people. Nothing in their lives made them famous. Neither had more than a high school education. What elevates them to the lofty status of hero is how they lived their lives. Betty was kind and generous. No one spent a holiday alone if Betty knew them. She gave countless hours to her church, preparing meals, cleaning, serving, singing. She worked full time, but yet kept her house immaculate, enjoyed her family and friends and loved her husband more than anything. In her final months on earth, she thought not of herself but of those she would leave behind and how her passing might affect them. Bill was also a generous man. If you needed help, he was there. He supported his wife and family, did countless jobs around the house and was an interested and attentive parent. He believed in old fashioned work ethic and rarely missed a day of work for all his life. He was a parent who showed up at class performances, and PTA meetings. He served as a church trustee and led committees in planning church events. He did the "behind the scenes work" and let other people take the credit. Bill and Betty were true heroes, whose lives I try to emulate every day. You see, they were my parents and everything I know about life, I learned at their knee. I only hope that every day, I offer the same guidance and commitment to my own children and grandchild. I pray that I remember daily to show the love and patience that was shown to me.
I miss you Mom and Dad. I will always miss you.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Random Rants and Raves
My daughter has suffered some serious health issues lately. We are not talking allergies, colds or a sore throat here. Her symptoms include a rapid heart rate, edema, bruising, serious headaches, neck pain, and a straight line rash that erupts with an itching and burning and lasts about three to five days, painful the whole time. She's been to several doctors, including two gps and a cardiologist, whose idea of handling the situation was to throw pills at her--no attempt to find a diagnosis.
Further complicating the whole mess is the fact that without a diagnosis, her employer is being very uncooperative about her missing work for appointments and procedures. Talk about your vicious circle--you must not really be sick because there is no name for what you have. You can't take anymore time off. I understand you have two medical appointments, one a seriously long procedure, but can't you come to work in between those?
As her mother, I have been very concerned about the lack of diagnosis. Seems to me in our age of technology, that diagnosing my 33 year old daughter can't be that difficult. Really folks, we can put billions of bits of information in a thumb drive--literally no bigger than my thumb.
Being the librarian I am, I conducted some Internet research. I was alarmed at the illnesses in which her symptoms were manifested. Major organ involvement permeated the list and my alarm grew. Thankfully a few months back, Leigh had found a really good, thorough GP. She wasn't using him on a regular basis, because of his office hours--that's a whole other story, the lack of physicians offering office hours that are convenient to people who work 9-5. Instead, she was seeing a doctor who had late afternoon and evening appointments that she could go to after work. She finally broke down and took time from work to go see Dr. X. After running a series of tests, including taking enough blood to feed a vampire family for a week, yesterday she received some good news. She has two viruses, Epstein Barr Virus and cytomegalovirus.
What's that, you ask? Technically, the viruses are related. The latter produces the common cold sore, but sometimes can produce the same or similar sypmtoms as EBV, which is the mononucleosis virus. Yes, it is good news, because now we can at least put a label on how she feels. The list of symptoms is long, but includes every symptom she has, even though the doctor is not yet convinced that other things aren't going on.
She knows what she has now, but my work has just begun. I need to convince her that certain things need to happen if she's going to feel better. That's not an easy job because she is just as stubborn about things as I am.One of the first things I suggested is that she taking short walks in the evening to help her sleep. How could I have predicted that last night, she would take my advice and stroll outside our house between 9:30 and 10 PM? Not far mind you, but she had her cell phone in hand, trying to reach a few friends. She was right across the street from our home with her cell phone to her ear when a car drove up the street, slowed down, at which time someone inside pelted her with a frozen egg. It hit her in the rib cage with the force of a baseball. By the time she reached the front door, she was crying from the pain of being hit. I immediately called 911. After all, this was assault! About 30 minutes later, a police car pulled into our driveway. I was grateful they came although by that time there was probably little hope of them catching the culprits. They did mention they had several calls about the same car pelting eggs all over south Irving. I am appalled that none of these kids came to the realization that these eggs could hurt someone. That was indicated by the laughter as they sped away! Today, my daughter is bruised and extremely sore thanks to a careless prank. Should the police locate these young men, my suggestion would be they suffer the same fate as my daughter. This could work particularly well for her. There will be the therapeutic action of exacting justice, while showing off her wicked throw developed after years of playing softball. Using pin-point accuracy, I am sure she could place a few frozen eggs on well chosen targets!
Further complicating the whole mess is the fact that without a diagnosis, her employer is being very uncooperative about her missing work for appointments and procedures. Talk about your vicious circle--you must not really be sick because there is no name for what you have. You can't take anymore time off. I understand you have two medical appointments, one a seriously long procedure, but can't you come to work in between those?
As her mother, I have been very concerned about the lack of diagnosis. Seems to me in our age of technology, that diagnosing my 33 year old daughter can't be that difficult. Really folks, we can put billions of bits of information in a thumb drive--literally no bigger than my thumb.
Being the librarian I am, I conducted some Internet research. I was alarmed at the illnesses in which her symptoms were manifested. Major organ involvement permeated the list and my alarm grew. Thankfully a few months back, Leigh had found a really good, thorough GP. She wasn't using him on a regular basis, because of his office hours--that's a whole other story, the lack of physicians offering office hours that are convenient to people who work 9-5. Instead, she was seeing a doctor who had late afternoon and evening appointments that she could go to after work. She finally broke down and took time from work to go see Dr. X. After running a series of tests, including taking enough blood to feed a vampire family for a week, yesterday she received some good news. She has two viruses, Epstein Barr Virus and cytomegalovirus.
What's that, you ask? Technically, the viruses are related. The latter produces the common cold sore, but sometimes can produce the same or similar sypmtoms as EBV, which is the mononucleosis virus. Yes, it is good news, because now we can at least put a label on how she feels. The list of symptoms is long, but includes every symptom she has, even though the doctor is not yet convinced that other things aren't going on.
She knows what she has now, but my work has just begun. I need to convince her that certain things need to happen if she's going to feel better. That's not an easy job because she is just as stubborn about things as I am.One of the first things I suggested is that she taking short walks in the evening to help her sleep. How could I have predicted that last night, she would take my advice and stroll outside our house between 9:30 and 10 PM? Not far mind you, but she had her cell phone in hand, trying to reach a few friends. She was right across the street from our home with her cell phone to her ear when a car drove up the street, slowed down, at which time someone inside pelted her with a frozen egg. It hit her in the rib cage with the force of a baseball. By the time she reached the front door, she was crying from the pain of being hit. I immediately called 911. After all, this was assault! About 30 minutes later, a police car pulled into our driveway. I was grateful they came although by that time there was probably little hope of them catching the culprits. They did mention they had several calls about the same car pelting eggs all over south Irving. I am appalled that none of these kids came to the realization that these eggs could hurt someone. That was indicated by the laughter as they sped away! Today, my daughter is bruised and extremely sore thanks to a careless prank. Should the police locate these young men, my suggestion would be they suffer the same fate as my daughter. This could work particularly well for her. There will be the therapeutic action of exacting justice, while showing off her wicked throw developed after years of playing softball. Using pin-point accuracy, I am sure she could place a few frozen eggs on well chosen targets!
Sunday, July 26, 2009
My Reading Origins
At the top of the stairs and down the hall, was the front bedroom of my grandparent’s house. I can still close my eyes and see every corner of the room, from its castle like turret of windows to the mahogany sleigh bed. When I was four, I visited this room every single day, because this is where my grandmother spent her time. Propped up on pillows in this huge sleigh bed, because bone cancer had made it impossible for her to walk more than a few steps, she beckoned me to join her atop this magnificent bed to hear the story of Peter Rabbit. She knew Peter intimately, as she was in his original audience, the generation of children for whom the stories were written.
Oh, how she could tell this story. She could tell me all of Beatrix Potter’s stories, but she had long ago stopped trying to interest me in Benjamin Bunny or Jemima Puddle Duck because she knew what I really wanted to hear was Peter’s adventure in Mr. MacGregor’s garden. I had to hear every last detail, from that bunny mother who went off to shop and left all her children on their own, to Peter, who while enjoying the buffet of veggies in MacGregor’s garden was discovered by the angry farmer who chased him with a hoe. Along the way, Peter lost his very handsome bunny suit, ending up in the pail of water, chilled and frightened. I loved Peter and his exploits. To me, Peter was a risk taker, a daring, charming, young rabbit, who did things on impulse and didn’t always listen to his mother. Being the very good girl, who always listened to her mother, I revered vicariously, his mischievous deeds. I cheered as he ran lickety split across the garden and squirmed under the gate with the help of his bird friends. I’d let out a little cry when his mother would put him to bed without supper.
We’d talk and giggle about Peter and his antics and then my grandma Jenny would shuffle a few feet to the card table set up in front of the biggest window. There we’d enjoy tea, cucumber and watercress sandwiches, served by my Aunt May in her crisply starched white apron, and imagine that Ms. Potter had come to tea to talk about naughty Peter and her other characters. Those days were glorious and emblazoned in my memory banks.
In the months leading to her death in July of 1955, my grandmother sent my aunt on a quest, to find me my own copy of this book so I could forever remember the story and our days of sharing it. Those magical days made me a reader. They led to days of independent reading through the shelves of my neighborhood library. Those wonderful, happy days of childhood, when my dear grandmother took the time to introduce me to stories and books, produced a librarian and teacher who loves introducing children to books.
Oh, how she could tell this story. She could tell me all of Beatrix Potter’s stories, but she had long ago stopped trying to interest me in Benjamin Bunny or Jemima Puddle Duck because she knew what I really wanted to hear was Peter’s adventure in Mr. MacGregor’s garden. I had to hear every last detail, from that bunny mother who went off to shop and left all her children on their own, to Peter, who while enjoying the buffet of veggies in MacGregor’s garden was discovered by the angry farmer who chased him with a hoe. Along the way, Peter lost his very handsome bunny suit, ending up in the pail of water, chilled and frightened. I loved Peter and his exploits. To me, Peter was a risk taker, a daring, charming, young rabbit, who did things on impulse and didn’t always listen to his mother. Being the very good girl, who always listened to her mother, I revered vicariously, his mischievous deeds. I cheered as he ran lickety split across the garden and squirmed under the gate with the help of his bird friends. I’d let out a little cry when his mother would put him to bed without supper.
We’d talk and giggle about Peter and his antics and then my grandma Jenny would shuffle a few feet to the card table set up in front of the biggest window. There we’d enjoy tea, cucumber and watercress sandwiches, served by my Aunt May in her crisply starched white apron, and imagine that Ms. Potter had come to tea to talk about naughty Peter and her other characters. Those days were glorious and emblazoned in my memory banks.
In the months leading to her death in July of 1955, my grandmother sent my aunt on a quest, to find me my own copy of this book so I could forever remember the story and our days of sharing it. Those magical days made me a reader. They led to days of independent reading through the shelves of my neighborhood library. Those wonderful, happy days of childhood, when my dear grandmother took the time to introduce me to stories and books, produced a librarian and teacher who loves introducing children to books.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Gone Too Soon
I spent the afternoon watching the memorial service for Michael Jackson. It was a celebration of his life and thousands waited in line to find their place at this moment in history. Millions more were glued to their televisions as friends performed his music, unfolded favorite memories and inspired all of us to remember the best of what was the phenomenon known as Michael Jackson. Personally, I was touched by the poem from Maya Angelou. Later in the afternoon, while looking for the poem online I ran into a hateful blog by Dallas Morning News columnist, Ron Dreher, that demonized Michael and everything that occurred at this event. I had to ask why--in his comment section--not once but twice. I was irritated and annoyed that he wrote this column as a right wing Conservative Christian and he and his blog followers made comments that vilified Michael and those who would celebrate his life as if they were speaking for all Christians. He did not speak for me and judging by the rest of the material that appeared later today in his blog he most certainly never will. Let us not forget in the hours of television footage about Michael, that more than an entertainer of millions, he was a son, a brother, a father, a friend.
Michael Jackson was an icon, plain and simple. I remember clearly when Michael's song Ben, replaced Hey Jude in the number one spot of my mother's top ten list. It didn't matter how old you were, his music affected you, made you happy, sad, reflective, excited, wanting to get up and dance. My daughter quantified events in her life by releases of Thriller, Billie Jean and Bad music videos. They were, after all, events.
Two of his friends, Brooke Shields and Magic Johnson, delivered the most poignant stories. They were snapshots of a man who could have fun, laugh, enjoy his friends, his family, his children outside the glare of public life. In the countless hours of interviews that Michael did with Martin Brashears for ABC, his innocence was apparent. He repeated often, how shy he was off stage. His life from age 5 was performing. He did it well and was most comfortable when in front of an audience. It was evident that Michael truly was Peter Pan--the boy who never grew up.Was this the tragic flaw of Michael Jackson--wanting his lost childhood to last forever?
Michael Jackson was an icon, plain and simple. I remember clearly when Michael's song Ben, replaced Hey Jude in the number one spot of my mother's top ten list. It didn't matter how old you were, his music affected you, made you happy, sad, reflective, excited, wanting to get up and dance. My daughter quantified events in her life by releases of Thriller, Billie Jean and Bad music videos. They were, after all, events.
Two of his friends, Brooke Shields and Magic Johnson, delivered the most poignant stories. They were snapshots of a man who could have fun, laugh, enjoy his friends, his family, his children outside the glare of public life. In the countless hours of interviews that Michael did with Martin Brashears for ABC, his innocence was apparent. He repeated often, how shy he was off stage. His life from age 5 was performing. He did it well and was most comfortable when in front of an audience. It was evident that Michael truly was Peter Pan--the boy who never grew up.Was this the tragic flaw of Michael Jackson--wanting his lost childhood to last forever?
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Judy Blume
Those of you who know me, know that a writing idol of mine is Judy Blume. I regularly read her blog here at blogspot. In fact it is in my list of blogs. If you've never read her blog, take a moment and read her current post. She's a great writer and this post may give most of you--I am thinking Texans here--a reason to rethink NYC as a den of iniquity.
Big City Saga
Big City Saga
July 2, 2009
Here we are, just two days until the fabulous 4th. I love what the holiday stands for, although I detest fireworks. Not that their beauty and magic goes unnoticed by me, but the noise--I am not a loud noise person. I think that comes from years as an only child in a very quiet household.
Today, I would just rather write about July 4th and what it stands for with all its pomp and circumstance; along with the facts and fiction that surround it. Let's start at the beginning. The Second Continental Congress approved a resolution of independence in a closed session on July 2, 1776. The Declaration was written by Thomas Jefferson. He sought the editorial voice of both Benjamin Franklin and John Adams "because they were the two members of whose judgments and amendments I wished most to have the benefit." Ironically, both Jefferson and Adams died on July 4, 1826.
July 4, 1776, the Congress officially adopts the document and John Dunlap prints multiple copies. Twenty four of these "Dunlap broadsides" are known to exist. Copies of the document are sent to the New Jersey and Delaware legislatures. The declaration is read publicly in Philadelphia as well as to the American Army in New York. On July 19, 1776, The Second Continental Congress orders the document to be engrossed--which means officially inscribed--and the signing begins on August 2. It isn't until January 18, 1777, that the Congress, now meeting in Baltimore, Maryland, orders copies of the signed document be printed and sent to the various colonies. I think it is a remarkable history lesson for our children that things did not happen instantaneously as they do today--no email, fax, cell phone or facebook transmissions of news. Simply men on horseback passing the document and the word. My home state of Pennsylvania had the largest number of signers of the Declaration, 9, although only three of them have any strong name recognition. They were Benjamin Franklin, Robert Morse and Dr. Benjamin Rush. Maybe those names only had meaning to me as a Pennsylvania school girl. The other six were George Clymer, James Smith, George Taylor, John Morton, George Ross and James Wilson. Of note is Robert Treat Paine, a signer from Massachusetts, who descends from the same Paine ancestors as me.
The holiday has been celebrated continuously in various parts of the US, but wasn't officially called Independence Day until 1791. The longest continual celebration by parade occurs in Bristol, Rhode Island. The parade has been held every July 4 since 1785. Fireworks have been part of the celebration of the fourth since 1777. Even hotdog eating became part of the celebration when Nathan's Hotdogs on Coney Island began their hotdog eating contest in 1919 as a way for four immigrants to decide who among them was the most patriotic. Perhaps that is one of the reasons we include hotdogs in the "baseball, apple pie and hotdogs" statement of American tradition.
My sources for this blog were Wikipedia and The Declaration of Independence site from ushistory.org.
Today, I would just rather write about July 4th and what it stands for with all its pomp and circumstance; along with the facts and fiction that surround it. Let's start at the beginning. The Second Continental Congress approved a resolution of independence in a closed session on July 2, 1776. The Declaration was written by Thomas Jefferson. He sought the editorial voice of both Benjamin Franklin and John Adams "because they were the two members of whose judgments and amendments I wished most to have the benefit." Ironically, both Jefferson and Adams died on July 4, 1826.
July 4, 1776, the Congress officially adopts the document and John Dunlap prints multiple copies. Twenty four of these "Dunlap broadsides" are known to exist. Copies of the document are sent to the New Jersey and Delaware legislatures. The declaration is read publicly in Philadelphia as well as to the American Army in New York. On July 19, 1776, The Second Continental Congress orders the document to be engrossed--which means officially inscribed--and the signing begins on August 2. It isn't until January 18, 1777, that the Congress, now meeting in Baltimore, Maryland, orders copies of the signed document be printed and sent to the various colonies. I think it is a remarkable history lesson for our children that things did not happen instantaneously as they do today--no email, fax, cell phone or facebook transmissions of news. Simply men on horseback passing the document and the word. My home state of Pennsylvania had the largest number of signers of the Declaration, 9, although only three of them have any strong name recognition. They were Benjamin Franklin, Robert Morse and Dr. Benjamin Rush. Maybe those names only had meaning to me as a Pennsylvania school girl. The other six were George Clymer, James Smith, George Taylor, John Morton, George Ross and James Wilson. Of note is Robert Treat Paine, a signer from Massachusetts, who descends from the same Paine ancestors as me.
The holiday has been celebrated continuously in various parts of the US, but wasn't officially called Independence Day until 1791. The longest continual celebration by parade occurs in Bristol, Rhode Island. The parade has been held every July 4 since 1785. Fireworks have been part of the celebration of the fourth since 1777. Even hotdog eating became part of the celebration when Nathan's Hotdogs on Coney Island began their hotdog eating contest in 1919 as a way for four immigrants to decide who among them was the most patriotic. Perhaps that is one of the reasons we include hotdogs in the "baseball, apple pie and hotdogs" statement of American tradition.
My sources for this blog were Wikipedia and The Declaration of Independence site from ushistory.org.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
T-Ball is over!
Sadly, Dylan's team did not make it to the end of the tournament. I am sure the boys would have liked to play to the end, but I am not sure the parents and grandparents could have taken it, considering the current heat wave that is covering north Texas. Tuesday evening I sat through two games the Astros played, starting at 5:45 PM for warm-up, through the end of the second game at about 9:50 PM. The temperature hovered at around 100 degrees during the four hour period. We were all hot, tired and irritable when we got home. Dylan was up until almost midnight trying to wind down from the evening's events. He awoke about 3 AM suffering from a bad dream and kept his mommy up for about three hours. He finally fell back to sleep around 6 AM and then slept until 1:15 PM.
The bad dream episode was probably attributable to our gardening episode the previous day. We had our front beds cleaned out and weeded so we could expand them and plant some new foliage. When we went out to inspect them, we discovered a small green garter snake in the barren bed. I think that event coupled with an overtired little boy provided fertile ground for some big, snaky dreams.
The bad dream episode was probably attributable to our gardening episode the previous day. We had our front beds cleaned out and weeded so we could expand them and plant some new foliage. When we went out to inspect them, we discovered a small green garter snake in the barren bed. I think that event coupled with an overtired little boy provided fertile ground for some big, snaky dreams.
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