tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1677791322654415862024-02-26T08:37:02.986-08:00M.F. Erler_Peaks and Beyondmferler.blogspot.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02956833526717342736noreply@blogger.comBlogger186125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-167779132265441586.post-19206292218423106992024-02-18T17:12:00.000-08:002024-02-18T17:12:54.258-08:00A Lost Connection<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzueJMh11RoqpiioXL1-HEgdP1BQKRGDsfsMs83OVfMZ-52Kfb1bgt0lAGVw0-2dEWx8JL39nG0gCW49iUskVadfoDPTl18wnbbsCBJNCw03ESPEjalvJWhtWRbyShMV0SFYRJBgqvxCbaVWmgirfj9U5Yn9oJ9oN5wb5GLDYLfUTu18LpuoqBGkBE7gA/s3088/El%20Dorado%20Cemetery%201.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="3088" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzueJMh11RoqpiioXL1-HEgdP1BQKRGDsfsMs83OVfMZ-52Kfb1bgt0lAGVw0-2dEWx8JL39nG0gCW49iUskVadfoDPTl18wnbbsCBJNCw03ESPEjalvJWhtWRbyShMV0SFYRJBgqvxCbaVWmgirfj9U5Yn9oJ9oN5wb5GLDYLfUTu18LpuoqBGkBE7gA/w220-h220/El%20Dorado%20Cemetery%201.jpg" width="220" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">As I approached the small gravestone,
lying almost even with the grass around it, my legs began to weaken. Before I
knew it I was on my knees, tears streaming down my cheeks, as I read the
letters I’d never been able to read before.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil6-F2RMiRdlpY-akZFrWuK3Bbg61nw9nDKX4TPLPW8_NBJSAyBPjfyIQrGaja7AS7i85lc-oAHvYJYTRVKCY50YSxTim6pOTqPDQZP7FSI7d1EBudLmakuT9upigZukIBktdlZHPVOfo14g9tCCeL86EqKHF-p2hbBpcUbRLL4uU0H19Fl0IOAYogyeY/s3088/Roberta%20Lee's%20stone.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="3088" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil6-F2RMiRdlpY-akZFrWuK3Bbg61nw9nDKX4TPLPW8_NBJSAyBPjfyIQrGaja7AS7i85lc-oAHvYJYTRVKCY50YSxTim6pOTqPDQZP7FSI7d1EBudLmakuT9upigZukIBktdlZHPVOfo14g9tCCeL86EqKHF-p2hbBpcUbRLL4uU0H19Fl0IOAYogyeY/s320/Roberta%20Lee's%20stone.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">The last time
I’d seen my little sister’s gravestone I was probably only three or four, too
young to read the letters. This was at least 67 years ago. I had no idea why my
parents took me to the cemetery almost every Sunday afternoon. I thought it was
something everyone did. I wasn’t quite three when my brother Robbie was born.
They must have brought him some as a baby. All I know for sure is that we never
went to the cemetery after we moved to Magnolia Drive, and that was right after
I turned five. Mom probably couldn’t handle it anymore, I suppose.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In
fact Mom never mentioned a word about Roberta Lee. Dad told us when I was about
eight years old, I believe. We’d just watched an episode of the old show <i>Wagon
Train. </i>In this episode a newborn baby had died.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It’s
so sad that the baby died,” I remember saying to Dad.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
nodded and took Robbie and me aside. I think Mom left the room to put our baby
brother to bed. “We had a baby that died like that,” he said. “She was born too
soon and only lived for a couple of hours. We named her Roberta Lee.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As
soon as he said this, I knew what those Sunday afternoon visits to the cemetery
had been for.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Robbie was too young to
understand, but it all made sense to me. I had a little sister who died. By
this time I had a second brother, baby Danny. So I grew up with two brothers,
but I always wondered what it would be like to have a sister.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
knowledge that I did have a sister somewhere—maybe in heaven—left a huge
impression in my heart. And the name Roberta Lee meant a lot, for Dad’s first
name was Robert, and Mom’s middle name was Lee. I began to include my sister in
my childhood bedtime prayers: “God bless Mama and Daddy, Robbie and Danny, and
Roberta Lee, wherever she may be.” Neither of my parents ever commented on how
I worded my prayer for her.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As
grew older, another memory was added to the story, at least in my own mind. On
February 10, 1954, I was within a week of turning nineteen months old. People
say this is too young to have a memory, but I know I do remember an event the
night my sister was born.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
was sitting on a brown area rug on the hardwood floor of the rental house we
lived in until I was five. There is a cup of cold water or juice in my hands.
Across the room I hear my father and my mother’s mother, Nanny, talking in anxious,
upset voices. My mother is not in the house. Somehow I know that she would be
there with Nanny, unless something was very wrong. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
most distinct part of the memory is the feeling of cold liquid running down my
chest when I spill the cup as I try to drink from it. That is another hint that
tells me I am under two years old. My adult mind has now reasoned that I picked
up on the tension in the room, and that’s why I spilled that cup. And I can
think of no other reason for all those things to be happening—except the birth
of Roberta Lee. Mama wasn’t home because she was at the hospital in premature
labor, and that’s why Daddy and Nanny were upset.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My
brothers had no memories like this. Robbie was born just over a year later in
1955, and Danny came along in 1958.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There’s
another strange twist in the story, though. When our father died, in August
2010, I was in Montana and my brother Robert (no longer Robbie) was the one who
saw Dad the day before he died.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As
soon as Robert had come into his room at the nursing home, Dad had told him
this story. “I had the most wonderful day yesterday. I spent it with my
daughter.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“But
Dad, Frances is in Montana, not here.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No,
my other daughter,” said Dad. “She has such beautiful eyes.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>After
Robert’s visit that morning with Dad, he had to go to work. Dad died a couple
of hours later.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When
he called to tell me about Dad’s passing, one of Robert’s first questions was,
“Did our parents have a baby girl between you and me who died?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes,”
I said. “Dad told us about her when I was around eight, You would have been
only five, so you don’t remember. And of course, if they took you to the
cemetery when I was three, you were just a baby.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>That
event left me wondering that somehow as he approached death, Dad had crossed
over just far enough the day before he died, to see the daughter he’d never
known on earth but would know in heaven. And the more I wondered, the more I
wanted to go find that little grave and see it again.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
website FindaGrave.com told me she was buried in Arlington Memorial Cemetery in
El Dorado, Arkansas. This was the town we’d lived in until I was eleven. There
was a photo of the gravestone, and this was the first time I found out exactly
when she was born.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Arkansas
is a long way from Montana, so I wondered if I’d ever get back there. But in
February 2024, we were visiting my cousin in Jefferson, Texas. When I
discovered El Dorado was only three hours’ drive away, I convinced my husband
to take a day trip to my birthplace. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
first thing we did was find the cemetery, but it was huge. Since we had no idea
which section to look in, it would take all day and maybe more to find one
small grave. After wandering and searching on foot for about half an hour, we
finally found a phone number on a sign at one of the cemetery entrances. My
husband Paul called the number, and a woman answered. He explained our
situation, and she told him the information office was right across the road
from where we were sitting in our rental car.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>With
great relief, we drove to the office and showed her the photo I’d printed from
the FindaGrave.com website. I think she recognized the name of the person who
had posted the picture. It didn’t take her long to locate the gravesite, and
she printed a map for us.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’ll
take you there,” she said.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh,
that’s very kind,” said Paul.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No
problem,” she replied. “I do this often.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So
we followed her car as she drove back through the cemetery gate. We hadn’t gone
far when she stopped and pointed to a corner lot. It had only a couple of
gravestones, and no tall headstones like most of the rest of the graves in the
cemetery. Fuzzy childhood memories of trips to the cemetery fell into place:
the grave was near one of the cemetery lanes, and there was a woodland several
yards to the left. She drove away, as we walked toward the place my heart so
desired to see. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">That’s when I
fell on my knees. I had no words, just tears of joy that I’d found my little
sister at last. There was grief, too, for the years that she had missed. We
were there on February 5, 2024—just five days short of what would have been her
seventieth birthday. An entire life missed. Yet as I sat on the damp ground, I
couldn’t help but think perhaps she was the lucky one. She’d gone straight to
heaven, while I had endured seventy-one years of the trials and heartbreaks of
life here on earth. Oh, there had been joys, too. But right at that point my
joy and pain all merged as I sat and talked to my sister.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Paul
gently told me, “Take all the time you need,” and went to the car. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As
I looked at the stone and ran my hands over it, I was amazed that it still
seemed new. The letters and numbers were still sharp and deeply cut. There were
no signs of weathering. Running my fingers on the polished granite around the
name section, an eerie sensation came over me. My brothers and I had chosen the
same shade of pink and grey granite when we picked our parents’ headstone for
their grave in Rochester, Illinois.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
told my sister about her younger brothers. As I told her the color of
everyone’s eyes in the family I wondered what color her “beautiful eyes” were. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m
looking forward to finally meeting you,” I said, as the tears kept cascading
down. “I’ve wondered my whole life what you would be like. Someday I will know.”
(Even as I write this, the tears are falling again.)<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>With
a quavering voice, I tried to sing some favorite songs to her. The only one I
could get all the way through was <i>Jesus Loves Me</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I forgot to tell her that this was one of our
mother’s favorite songs when she was in her eighties, had Alzheimer’s, and was
approaching death. For some reason I talked more about our father, for he was
the one who had told me about her. I know the two of them are together in
heaven forever, and now Mom has joined them.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Finally, my
tears ebbed and I rejoined Paul in the rental car. We drove around my old
hometown. Many things had changed, but some hadn’t. I recognized the school
where I had attended first through fifth grade, and started sixth, before my
dad’s work forced us to move to Illinois. We drove around my old neighborhood,
and it was good to see that almost all the houses still looked loved and cared
for. The magnolia trees on Magnolia Drive were fifty feet taller than I
remembered. But everything else looked smaller than I remembered. Our former
house looked beautiful, as the owners had bricked the front. I could still see
the rectangular wrought iron Mom had chosen for the front porch; she wanted
nothing to do with curls and leaf patterns.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
even found the rental house where I had spilled that drink on myself almost
seventy years ago. It looked well cared for, too. And down the hill there were
the railroad tracks that Dad liked to walk me to. Sometimes we even saw trains
going by. Dad loved trains.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Our
visit to El Dorado ended with a late picnic lunch in a park near the rental
house. Perhaps it was the park I remembered walking to with Mama on sunny days
when Daddy was at work.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A
Bible verse came to my mind, “Lord, now let your servant depart in peace…for my
eyes have seen…” The verse is telling about a priest seeing baby Jesus, as God
had promised he would before he died. I guess I was feeling that I can die in
peace now, too, for I have seen with my own adult eyes the place where some
treasured childhood memories dwell, of the sister I hope to get to know in
heaven.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-top: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p>mferler.blogspot.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02956833526717342736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-167779132265441586.post-80444482389492443332024-01-08T12:21:00.000-08:002024-01-08T12:21:42.878-08:00A Whirl of Confusion<p><span style="font-family: arial;"> <span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #050505;">Whatever date the Winter Solstice was this year, we've made
it. We've been in fog here all week, and my brain is foggy, too. Seeing my
doctor today to see if some adjustments need to be made in meds</span></span><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", sans-serif;">.</span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="background-color: white;">This is where it started getting confusing.
On December 22, 2023 I was told by my doctor that all my symptoms of anxiety,
tremors, vertigo, high blood pressure, confusion, etc. were Serotonin Syndrome.
In other words I had too much of the brain chemical that was supposed to
elevate my mood and ward off depression, But too much serotonin can be deadly.</span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span><span style="background-color: white;">It could have led to extreme muscle spasms
and even heart failure.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", sans-serif;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #050505; font-size: 11.5pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The really frightening part was that I’d been taking the over
the counter supplement SAMe for at least 5 or 6 years. My neurologist never
cautioned me not to take it with antidepressants. When my family doctor found
out, he immediately said, “You should not be taking that!” No one had told me, and the “warnings” on the
box were vague. I guess it was partly my fault for not asking more questions,
but I thought I had. At every doctor visit, we go over my list of medications,
both prescribed and OTC. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #050505; font-size: 11.5pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #050505; font-size: 11.5pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The main trigger of this episode was a simple misdiagnosis, I
think. In early November I told my doctor that I was feeling more depressed,
but actually I was more anxious. Yes, I did have symptoms of depression, like
lack of motivation and feeling sad. Both Thanksgiving and Christmas were not
very joyous holidays for me. But now I
see that the increase of the antidepressant Lexapro, was the opposite of what I
needed. I had too much serotonin in my system, instead of not enough. (I wonder
if there’s a blood test they can do to determine this? It would be a lot better
than just trying to analyze symptoms that can become confused. Almost 2 months
after the low dose (only 5 mg) of Lexapro was added, my doctor could finally
see that my real problem was too much serotonin, just the opposite of what he’d
first thought. I’m not blaming him, because brain chemical imbalances are
tricky to diagnose. I blame society’s attitude toward people with mental health
problems. There hasn’t been enough good information given to the doctors or the
public. And every person’s biochemical makeup is unique, so what works for one
may not work for another.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #050505; font-size: 11.5pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #050505; font-size: 11.5pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Anyway, he instructed me to stop the Lexapro for one week and
then restart it. But only a few days after restarting, my previous symptoms got
much worse. Here’s what happened on January 4, 2024:<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #050505; font-size: 11.5pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #050505; font-size: 11.5pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Next
stage of my shaky new year. Anxiety turned into bad vertigo. Paul and I went to
the health club. He walks the track while I go to Taichi class. Only tonight,
as I leaned over to change my shoes, the whole room started rocking. I clung to
the bench and felt like I was on a carnival ride, not a fun one either.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #050505; font-size: 11.5pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="color: #050505; font-size: 11.5pt;">A
friend from the class saw me and went to get a staff person to help. After
several minutes they found Paul. He had to go change out of his running clothes
while they got me a wheelchair. Got wheeled to our car. Now that I'm home in
bed I feel better. But so much for getting my exercise done! My doctor thinks I
have been getting too much serotonin, which helps fight depression. But too
much gives anxiety, tremors, and vertigo. Other bad stuff, too. Not a good way
to start the new year.</span><span style="color: #050505; font-size: 11.5pt;"><!--[if gte vml 1]><v:shapetype
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<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;">BUYER BEWARE! After
over 20 years of doing the wrong things unknowingly, I have learned a lesson I
must share. It took hours of internet research to find the actual scientific
research--which we consumers, and apparently many physicians and pharmacists
are unaware of. If you take <u>any</u> antidepressants or migraine medications
(and in my case I take both), you must NOT take any common cold or allergy
remedies. No antihistamines, decongestants, expectorants, cough suppressants,
or pain and fever reducers. There are a couple of nasal sprays that are okay
and acetaminophen is okay short term, but be careful to avoid overdosing this
one. The old fashioned things of stay home, get rest, and drink plenty of non-caffienated
fluids are the best.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Why don't doctors
warn about this? My own theory is that the makers of OTC drugs, put any
warnings in the very small print, if they mention at all "a very rare side
effect called Serotonin Syndrome. " In my recent research, I've found
that: yes the extreme side effects: heart problems and muscle spasms and delirium
are rare. And these other symptoms I'm having are easily mistaken for other
conditions. That's what has been happening with me. As a result, some of the
drugs I was told to take have actually made matters worse. When I look back,
I'm surprised I've made it to 70!<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I'm not out to sue
anyone, I'm just hoping to keep others from my mistakes. Off and on for 20
years, I've had those little whirls of vertigo, slight tremors, anxiety,
occasional irregular heartbeats, hot and cold flashes. Sounds like menopause,
right? That's what I thought, too. But I passed that 20 years ago. In the past
15 years, these symptoms have gotten worse. I've had 3 major vertigo events.
One was last night at my health club. The whole world was rocking and rolling
while I held onto a bench for dear life.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I know the next
thing people will tell me is to switch to the "natural remedies". But
the truth is they are chemicals, too, just like the drugs. Anything we put in
our body has the possibility of nourishing it or having ill effects. There are
lots of plant products out there in nature that are toxic to humans. So again I
say, Buyer Beware. Try to find the most up to date research from reputable,
third-party sources. And remember even too much of a good thing, even vitamins
and supplements, can be bad.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 3.75pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;">My hope now is that
all these adverse reacting chemicals will flush from my body, that I will
regain some strength and equilibrium, and be able to enjoy life again. But these symptoms have been going on in my
life for a long time, and it may take a long time to get back to equilibrium. </span><span style="font-family: Segoe UI, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjsUcALVM67r0VYZUosKoLNJATefl2_UFXPVDmK6e5xMLrk5bHC9KFP-YJrcMt5x51ZH2R4HJ66ULut9qNlU3d7eEKym1YBCPf3zZiJdg4TEKeR6FefRlTWh-j431RJQKhBL8_U4oWwR3p0qOIba33QRJAbOcRxU9QfiAaaAG1xyY4SzdbZRwR9XFctQic" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="822" data-original-width="822" height="334" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjsUcALVM67r0VYZUosKoLNJATefl2_UFXPVDmK6e5xMLrk5bHC9KFP-YJrcMt5x51ZH2R4HJ66ULut9qNlU3d7eEKym1YBCPf3zZiJdg4TEKeR6FefRlTWh-j431RJQKhBL8_U4oWwR3p0qOIba33QRJAbOcRxU9QfiAaaAG1xyY4SzdbZRwR9XFctQic=w334-h334" width="334" /></a></div><p></p>mferler.blogspot.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02956833526717342736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-167779132265441586.post-65267574188971702952024-01-02T15:09:00.001-08:002024-01-02T15:09:47.931-08:00What Are You Taking for Granted?<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">In our modern world, we take so many things for
granted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A couple of weeks ago, the pump
on our well stopped working.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All of a
sudden, there was no water when I turned on the faucet.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">A call to the well-driller brought the suggestion to
shut it all down for an hour and then try to restart it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So we did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It worked, but then the same thing happened the next day!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Another attempt was made to reboot it with
the hour-long shut off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It worked again,
and Thanksgiving went smoothly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then the
well pump quit again on Christmas Day and then on New Year’s Day, 2023.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This time the driller came to our house and
tested the pump, but still hasn’t been able to figure out what is wrong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Wait and see,” was the only advice he could
give.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I realize our house is past ten years old, and
nowadays that means things are going to break down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some of our appliances have already had to be
replaced.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not complaining.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s just life.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">But this whole experience has made me realize how
many things we do take for granted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like
the water coming on every time we turn the faucet handle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or the lights coming on whenever I hit the
switch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even my phone and my computer
making it so much easier to do research and to write.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Many of us are old enough to remember the days of
typewriters and rotary-dial phones. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(My
first two books were originally typed on a manual typewriter!) <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I fear our numbers are dwindling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What kind of things will our children and
grandchildren never experience?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kind of
like how we (and often our parents) never experienced travel in a horse-drawn
covered wagon, homes without indoor plumbing or electricity, and travel from
Kalispell to Eureka taking days rather than under two hours. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Right now our well is working again, after the
second reboot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I don’t take that
water in my sink or shower for granted anymore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I realize it could disappear any day now.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I think the timing of this wake-up call event was
good, with Thanksgiving just around the corner again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I have a lot more things to be thankful for than I realized, and I hope
to stop taking them for granted.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">UPDATE 2023: In the end we had to spend a thousand-some dollars to buy a new part for the pump. At least for now I can turn on the faucet without fear. </span></p>mferler.blogspot.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02956833526717342736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-167779132265441586.post-51981150054646007382024-01-02T15:09:00.000-08:002024-01-02T15:09:19.133-08:00A Life of Ups and Downs<p> <span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">I want to apologize to my friends for burdening them with my periodic bouts of depression. It's like waves on the ocean. They go up and down. Sometimes I'm on a crest and see a hopeful world around me. Other times I'm in the trough, and all I can see is the angry wave crashing toward me. Once in a while there are even calm seas, and I can relax and bask in the sun. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">What my counselor has helped me learn is to not get stuck in any of those places. The sea of life is always </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><a style="color: #385898; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit;" tabindex="-1"></a></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">in motion. The most important thing I can remind myself is that those low troughs don't last forever. Another wave will come eventually and lift me up again. And perhaps, when I need it most, Jesus will help me walk on the waters.</span></p>mferler.blogspot.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02956833526717342736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-167779132265441586.post-30776214882861265462023-09-23T12:01:00.000-07:002023-09-23T12:01:35.341-07:00Caught in a Downward Spiral<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJUKarELfg8Wk3uLFQsLgX_LIgCN-LUV9X_ZalleGrBN0LSpsciiNVVVvSbP_VVyYy0N0DKU1R0LBWVgGo-e3lhU5s9PGu6MLyLlaIuOoBj_l-wfN40L6Bh5kRJbVjaTGRd0dPDToQ577aSxTJr45drvqMha2JeMwRl_JifZ0JvDKPFMxQ7DdloZyKU2Y/s3088/20230920_120009.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="3088" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJUKarELfg8Wk3uLFQsLgX_LIgCN-LUV9X_ZalleGrBN0LSpsciiNVVVvSbP_VVyYy0N0DKU1R0LBWVgGo-e3lhU5s9PGu6MLyLlaIuOoBj_l-wfN40L6Bh5kRJbVjaTGRd0dPDToQ577aSxTJr45drvqMha2JeMwRl_JifZ0JvDKPFMxQ7DdloZyKU2Y/w297-h297/20230920_120009.jpg" width="297" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p><b>Teachers should NOT be expected to work in a war zone!</b> This I see and hear of happening almost daily, somewhere in the US. Guns are too easily available, even to children. Our popular literature, movies, and TV programs tell too many of us that the way to solve problems is through violence. But to paraphrase Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. -- <i>Violence only breeds more violence. Darkness can only be defeated with light. Hate can only be defeated with love.</i></p><p>I personally know of teachers who have been told to search their students' lockers for firearms. I personally know of a school that was nearly set on fire by two students, but these perpetrators have gone unpunished, or given merely a slap on the hand. A great many of our schools, and not just those in inner cities, have a teacher shortage because teachers are afraid to work where they have to be police, while still trying to teach.</p><p>What is wrong here? What is causing this downward spiral? In part I see that parents and administrators are expecting students to do <i>their</i> jobs for them. If this continues, it's no wonder that fewer people will see teaching as a good choice.</p><p>Teachers are unsupported and underpaid. Teaching is one of the most difficult and dangerous jobs in our country. If we don't start giving teachers the support and help they deserve, the downward spiral in this nation is going to continue.</p>mferler.blogspot.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02956833526717342736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-167779132265441586.post-28711831680191461772023-08-11T12:20:00.002-07:002023-08-11T12:20:40.452-07:00Some Things Forgotten That Should Not Be<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTc5s4A-zN-oIYU4kamdjhtdYSrkCoZxOjQ8kUzyjESpXd1rwCWwGD1UGwADA-sPrmyzRdghxi9jfUQ2ucd9tKN9tmYbbZ95JTe7a1WGZphJksOWVfnE78Mht0-06pFToFfB74a3SfNxXJqJfemae4_xXvVAR6T5KNVcW6BYI9a_wobrNEWljK3PHfs-Q/s4608/Man%20on%20Famine%20walk.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTc5s4A-zN-oIYU4kamdjhtdYSrkCoZxOjQ8kUzyjESpXd1rwCWwGD1UGwADA-sPrmyzRdghxi9jfUQ2ucd9tKN9tmYbbZ95JTe7a1WGZphJksOWVfnE78Mht0-06pFToFfB74a3SfNxXJqJfemae4_xXvVAR6T5KNVcW6BYI9a_wobrNEWljK3PHfs-Q/s320/Man%20on%20Famine%20walk.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /> <span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>Rough wood planks beneath my feet were rocking so much that I
couldn’t regain my balance. I vomited into the bucket again.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Where am I?” I
gasped.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> “There, there,
Maggie,” came a gentle male voice. “They say the voyages to America aren’t
always this rough.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> “America?” I
murmured. “Why?” As I lifted my head away from the smell in the bucket, my nose
was assaulted by even worse scents—human waste and many unwashed bodies.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Don’t you
remember?” the gentle voice said. “Ah—but perhaps it’s the Sea Fever. It makes
you forget, and some people lose their minds completely.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> I turned to look at
this man, as he patted my back. He must have seen the confusion on my face, for
he said, “I’m Thomas Cantlon, your husband. Do you remember me?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> Then my mind opened
like a door, letting in some light of understanding. “Of course I remember, you
oaf of a man.” O hoped this sounded enough like recognition. Just then, the
floor lurched again, and I fell into his arms.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> “’Tis all right,
dear Maggie. You just need to rest. Our wee son Johnnie is asleep at last.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> Thomas led me to a
rough plank raised about three feet off the floor. It just over a foot wide,
and the length of a grown man. With his help, I climbed onto what must be my
bunk. A pile of soiled clothes was the only pillow and a ragged blanket lay
beneath on the plank.<i> </i> <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> On the small bunk
beneath me, I could hear a child’s deep breathing in sleep. I assumed this was
‘wee Johnnie’. After I was settled, Thomas climbed onto the plank that
stretched three feet above my head. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> <i>Where am I, Cinda?<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span></i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">‘You’re in an emigrant ship from Cork, bound for North America.
It’s the year 1847.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> <i>But why?<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> ‘</span></i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Because of the famine.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> <i>Famine? Are you talking about the Potato Famine?<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span></i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">‘Yes, but I think I made a mistake in bringing you to 1847. This
is in the middle of everything—the worst winter on record, and the largest
number of emigrations in a single year. I think I should have taken you back a
few more years to when it all started.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> I sighed, but I
couldn’t tell if it came from my real self or from Maggie—or both of us. <i>Okay,
Cinda. Let’s get this over with. I hope it means I’ll get off this wretched
ship.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span></i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">As Maggie fell into a fitful sleep. I felt myself—the Emilia part
of me—rise and disappear into those flashing amber lights.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> Cinda’s voice
whirled into my mind in the same way as the colors, which were now changing to
a harsh vermillion. ‘Maggie Cantlon’ is your great-great-grandmother. Wee
Johnnie grows up in America and becomes just John. When he marries, he has a
daughter named Mary, your grandmother.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> <i>All right, I get that. Why wasn’t I
put into my great-grandfather John. He’s the one Grandma always talked about.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span></i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">‘Two reasons: He
was born during the famine, and he was only a child of three when this ship
sailed. But we are here to learn history. You can’t go ‘within’ a person of the
opposite sex, though.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> <i>I hadn’t thought of that. So are
you taking me farther back to when Maggie was younger, and to when the famine
started?<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span></i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">‘That’s the
plan.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> <i>You’d better get it right this
time.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span></i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">‘Don’t worry, I
will. This my first time being the guide instead of the one being guided.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> <i>Wait! What?<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span></i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 12pt;">No reply came.
Her voice faded like a gull winging into a fog.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The
colors ebbed away, and next thing I knew, my bare feet stood on green grass. It
was day, but fog was drifting and curling around me. My eyes made out a small
stone cottage, roofed with thatch. The man who’d called himself Thomas was
gazing at me from the single doorway in the stones. He had to duck to come out,
for the door was only about five feet tall. He looked much younger, and his
brown eyes sparkled as he smiled at me. <i> <o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br clear="all" style="mso-special-character: line-break; page-break-before: always;" /></span>mferler.blogspot.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02956833526717342736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-167779132265441586.post-60365185384906906872023-06-19T09:45:00.002-07:002023-06-19T09:45:31.385-07:00The Perils of Prejudice<p> </p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Chapter 3 – An Unexpected Visitor<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaTFLi3-Da5LszxY2zZuC9UHV4icMBuOrK9vJ7HjBAT_87MkWfrFVjX2Irwo6VUNUzDumQ2wKLHerP15ybWc8Ixa8S_8T8d3B0ywbFWwPAprjj6DRgcY_gsU_QhwxkNXU1wlCX5s2CbQdkHdmIyQiLSoWn_GZNCzunrJzhArdJdU4ZHr3UY0ZPFNluqoU/s4608/DSCN9644.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaTFLi3-Da5LszxY2zZuC9UHV4icMBuOrK9vJ7HjBAT_87MkWfrFVjX2Irwo6VUNUzDumQ2wKLHerP15ybWc8Ixa8S_8T8d3B0ywbFWwPAprjj6DRgcY_gsU_QhwxkNXU1wlCX5s2CbQdkHdmIyQiLSoWn_GZNCzunrJzhArdJdU4ZHr3UY0ZPFNluqoU/s320/DSCN9644.JPG" width="240" /></a></b></div><b><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></b><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">When
we arrived home after our twenty-eight days in Ireland and Great Britain, the
vision of those statues in Dublin still haunted me. I began accumulating and
reading any books about Irish history that popped up on my Internet searches.
As I worked my way through this first seven I’d bought, I became more and more
appalled at the stories they revealed.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Over the course of almost a
millennium, England had considered Ireland a country of barbarians, and many
even called the Irish sub-human. <i>The Irish Problem </i>was a preoccupation
of English Monarchs from the fourteenth century onward. Some of the atrocities
committed on both sides seemed unbelievable. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>One night, as I lay in bed trying to
sleep, images of some of the things I’d read bounced around in my mind. <i>Lord,
I wish I could have been there to help those poor people. Or at least to see
for myself what they went through.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>‘I think that’s what I’m here for,’
came a voice in my mind.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i>What? Am I going crazy now—hearing
voices?<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">‘No, I’m really
here in your mind.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I glanced over to see my husband
sleeping soundly, and sat up in bed shaking my head. <i>This shouldn’t be
happening. Lord, help me!<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Then a bluish
light appeared at the foot of the bed. Within its glow I saw a face with
piercing brown eyes, surrounded by a halo of brown curly hair. I covered my
eyes to clear my vision, but when I looked again, the vision was still there.
“Who are you?” I whispered.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>‘My name is Cinda,’ said the voice I’d
heard in my head before. ‘I’m one of your descendants, born in 2064.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“But that’s forty-two years in the
future. How can you be here?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>‘It’s called crossing the GAP, a way
of jumping across vast expanses of space and time.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I must be asleep and dreaming all
this,” I murmured.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The light suddenly disappeared, and I
sighed with relief. Until I heard the voice again. ‘You don’t have to speak
aloud to me,’ said the voice that had called herself Cinda. ‘I guess you could
call me a time-traveler. I think I’ve been sent here to take you back into your
ancestors’ lives.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i>You think?<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">‘Things like
this have happened to me before, Emilia. Another GAP-crosser took me back into
lives of some of my ancestors. Now she’s told me to do the same for you.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I closed my eyes and lay down on my
pillow. When I opened them, all I saw was the dim ceiling of our bedroom. <i>All
right, if this is a dream, I’ll go with it. And if it’s real—well, I’ll have to
go with that, too. Did you hear that, Cinda?<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>‘Yes, I did.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My heart pounded and felt like it
would jump out of my chest. <i>So am I dreaming, or not?<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">‘Does it really
matter?’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I hadn’t thought of that. Maybe it
didn’t make any difference. “I don’t know,” I whispered to the ceiling.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>‘Just trust me,’ said Cinda in my mind.
‘To start with, I’m only going to take you back 50 years, into your own past.
Maybe you will remember this—'<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Strange yellow and amber lights began
flashing over my head. When I closed my eyes, the lights were still dancing
before me. I felt like I was falling through the bed, then the floor, and at
last floating in nothingness. My hands began to tremble. Soon the sensation
filled my whole body. Just as I was about to cry out, my vision cleared.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 12pt;">I was sitting on a soft blue sofa in a
sunlit room. Across from me was my grandmother, Mary Emilia, sitting in her
favorite rocking chair. Grey hair framed her wrinkled face, but her brown eyes
still had the twinkle I knew so well.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“So you saw Killarney,” Grandma
smiled. “Did you also get to tour the Ring of Kerry?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No, unfortunately. I ran out of time
and had to get back to Edinburgh for school.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ah, too bad. It’s a beautiful place.”
She had a faraway look in her eyes. “I heard so many memories from my grandfather of times he spent there in childhood. I even got to visit there once with my mother and father, when they went back for a tour.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span> <span> </span><span> She had a faraway look in her eyes and lapsed into silence. At last, I spoke, just to break the uneasy feeling in the room.</span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 12pt;">“The weather was dreary and rainy when
I was there in 1973, Grandma.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes, it often rained, my grandfather
Thomas Cantlon told me. The worst was the bitterly cold winter of 1846, when it
snowed for weeks on end.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Were you there. Grandma?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Heavens, no! I wasn’t born until 1889,
long after my parents and grandparents had made their way to America.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“When did they come?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I believe it was 1847. My father John
Cantlon was a child of only three ,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What was that like?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m sorry, dear. I should have asked
my grandfather more about it, for my father was too young to remember much. The
only thing he remembered was feeing sick and hungry as the boat tossed and
rocked in storms on the sea.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I wish I could know what it was
really like.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh, child, those memories are
terrible, I think. Whenever I asked my grandfather, all he would say was:
‘Those times are best forgotten. My mind recoils from them when I try to
remember.’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Shining tears appeared in Grandma’s
eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m sorry,” I murmured. “I didn’t
mean to make you cry.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh, I cry at the drop of a hat these
days. I guess it’s the price of having lived eighty-five years. Each morning I
ask the Lord if I can go now—to see my dear departed husband Frederick.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I stood and moved toward her, taking
her quivering hand. “I’m sure the Lord will take you home soon, Grandma.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She pulled one of my hands to her
cheek. I felt the softness of her flacid skin. “I pray God hasn’t forgotten
me,” she whispered.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“The Bible says He will never leave us
or forsake us,” I murmured. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Her head nodded against my hand. “Yes,
well I’m ready whenever He is.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I stood there a long time, just
holding one of her hands with one of mine, while she pressed my other hand
against her cheek.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Then the room around me began to swim
before my eyes. Those amber lights flashed in my eyes again.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i>Are we going somewhere else, Cinda?<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">‘Yes, it’s time
for you to see the Potato Famine for yourself.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i>After all I’ve read I’m not sure I
want to.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">‘Admit it,
Emilia, you do want to deep in your heart.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i>Yes, I suppose so. What year are we
in now? I’m all confused.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>‘You were just back in time with your
grandmother in 1974.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i>She died in 1976, I think. Are we
going back to my own time now? To 2022?<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">‘No, we’re going
backwards again.’<i><o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">My stomach
churned, and I tried not to be sick. I failed, though. Soon I found myself
vomiting into a stinking bucket.<i><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>mferler.blogspot.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02956833526717342736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-167779132265441586.post-81055571432870753362023-06-06T19:09:00.000-07:002023-06-06T19:09:32.174-07:00An Irish Odyssey, Chapter 2<p> </p><p><b><span style="font-size: medium;">The following is from the second chapter (first draft) of a new historical fiction book I'm starting, titled <i>An Irish Odyssey</i>. You are the lucky few to see it first!</span></b></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja-WaVolmlq1fJ_H0IPypbqj_pBYFbNiB8ARHZ-y1QH6dU8XEDJ-1NUhBfyNg4bcOccyNv2UB2pWrC_x3X_mihb9UpDiWY2a4NEpdrHcMCqLI5YEPzoEITZb6yplncZy8lguaB5lrd1pUecZiH_JPIPTCKLPEMMAch3OklI0RxODccsNlKYfFTQt2M/s3088/Famine%20Ship.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="3088" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja-WaVolmlq1fJ_H0IPypbqj_pBYFbNiB8ARHZ-y1QH6dU8XEDJ-1NUhBfyNg4bcOccyNv2UB2pWrC_x3X_mihb9UpDiWY2a4NEpdrHcMCqLI5YEPzoEITZb6yplncZy8lguaB5lrd1pUecZiH_JPIPTCKLPEMMAch3OklI0RxODccsNlKYfFTQt2M/s320/Famine%20Ship.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Photo of Famine Ship, Dublin, Ireland, 2022</div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">With
a maiden name of Emilia Rene Haas, most people would assume my ancestry is
German, but that’s only partly true. My father’s mother was one hundred percent
Irish, which makes me one quarter Irish on his side. On my mother’s side, there
is mostly English and Scots-Irish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">These
Scots-Irish ancestors of mine were Protestant Scots and English from the
Borderland--southern Scotland and northern England--to whom King James I of
England in 1610 offered free land in the northern counties of Ireland. This was
done to create a buffer between Catholic Ireland and Protestant Scotland and
England, and it came to be called <i>The Plantation of Ulster</i>--the 9
counties of northern Ireland. His plantation of Protestants on seized Catholic
lands wasn’t the first, however. In the 1500s Queen Elizabeth I also planted
Protestants in Munster, the six southwest counties of Ireland. My Irish
ancestors came from this region. In fact, English political attitudes toward
Ireland as <i>The Irish Problem</i> date all the way back to Henry VII, father
of the better known Henry VIII.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>By the 1800s very few landowners were
native Irish, and the majority of Catholics in Ireland were tenant farmers, who
relied almost solely on the lowly potato as their source of food. As time
passed, their potato crop became their only source of revenue to pay rent to
their Protestant landlords. In addition, they were required to pay a tithe of
their earnings (ten percent) to the Protestant Church of England, a church they
didn’t belong to and gained no benefit from. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">As
time passed, these seeds planted in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries led
to sectarian violence that has lasted into the twenty-first century. The roots
of the problem still haven’t been fully resolved, but are simmering beneath the
surface like a dormant volcano. The conflict has always been more about
political power and less about religion, and those plantations by English
monarchs have borne much bitter fruit.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></b><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Four days after
our tour of Derry/Londonderry, our tour group settled for two nights in Dublin,
capital of the Republic of Ireland. In 2022, it’s a bustling city with a harbor
on the River Liffey, which runs through the center of the city. The old
dockyards have been given a make-over into a pleasant pedestrian way, paved
with gravel and concrete stones and a lane of shade trees running parallel to
the riverbank. We didn’t see any of the graffiti which we’d seen in Northern
Ireland.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As my husband and I walked along an
esplanade, we saw a three-masted sailing ship moored by one of the quays. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That’s a beautiful sight, isn’t it?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes,” said John. “It reminds me of
the tall ships we sometimes saw sailing on Lake Huron, when we lived in
Michigan.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It would be interesting to sail on a
ship like that,” I said. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Of
course, the sailing wouldn’t be nearly as smooth as on modern cruise ships.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“I
know. You’re right,” I nodded. “We’ve been spoiled by our two cruises on <i>Radiance
of the Seas</i>. Cruising was a relaxing way to travel, wasn’t it?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Oh,
sure. But I’m not ready to go cruising again until we see if Covid is really
over and done with,” he said. “I don’t want to be stuck on a quarantined ship.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">By
this time we were standing right above the gangplank leading to the tall ship.
A chain stretched across the entrance with a sign showing prices and times of
tours. Printed above an archway were the words: <i>This is a replica of the
Famine Ships which carried thousands of Irish overseas during the Potato Famine
in the mid-1800s.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“I
remember my dad talking about how his grandparents and their families came to
America during that famine,” I said, looking down at the rough planking of the
deck. “Those must have been very difficult voyages.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">John
nodded, “Crossing the stormy North Atlantic is seldom smooth sailing.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The
ship didn’t show any signs of life, as we stood and gazed down on her. “They
must not be doing tours today,” I shrugged.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Maybe
they will before our group heads back to England.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“That’s
tomorrow morning, though.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">John
reached over and took my hand. “Let’s walk some more.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">We
strolled away from the ship, and soon came to some statues arrayed along the
walkway. They were unlike any statues I’d ever seen. The first two we came upon
were a man and a woman. Each clutched a small bundle to their emaciated frame.
Their clothes were rags, and their feet were bare, but the faces captured me
most. They had the most haggard features and haunted-looking eyes. The man was
gazing slightly upward, and in the midst of the fear and desperation on his
face, I thought I sensed a tiny ray of hope. To his left, though, the woman’s
face showed only bewilderment and despair. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“I’ve
never seen statues like this in my life,” I murmured to John. “They look so
forlorn and hopeless.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“From
what I’ve heard of the Potato Famine, over a million Irish starved to death,”
he whispered. “Those who could manage, left this island forever. Here, look at
this sign.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">A
few paces beyond these first two statues, a placard read, “In 1844, the Earl of
Tullamore evicted all his 120 tenant farmers, tore down their rough stone cottages,
and left them to find their own way to Dublin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Those who survived the 100-mile walk boarded ships like the one moored
here, in hopes of finding a better life in America, Canada, or Australia.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Just
beyond the sign was a small statue which was merely a pair of worn-out shoes.
Near these, another placard displayed a map, showing the road many had taken.
It was labeled “The Famine Memorial Trail.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">I
stood rooted to the spot in silence for what seemed a long time, until my
husband spoke, “Are you all right?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Turning
to him in a daze, I murmured. “I’ve heard Dad talk about the famine and his
family’s emigration from Ireland many times in my life. But it never hit me
until today what a tragedy it was. To think that the landlords refused to help
their own tenants, and just left them to starve or fend for themselves--if they
could.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“I
remember a saying from one of my literature classes in high school. Our teacher
often talked about stories that showed ‘Man’s inhumanity towards man.’ This is
a classic case, I think,” said John.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Come
to think of it, our tour guide mentioned a field we passed on the coach tour in
County Kerry last week. He said it was full of unmarked graves of victims of
the famine. No one even knows how many graves there are scattered across the
country,” I said. “People were so poor they couldn’t afford coffins, and many
were buried in mass graves<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“I’ve
read that the blight which killed the potatoes was worst in the western
counties, like Kerry,” added John.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“I’ve
done a little genealogy research,” I said. “My Dad’s mother’s family name,
Cantlon, comes from County Kerry.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">We
stood gazing at those sculpture shoes, as a cool breeze began to whip the trees
above our heads. Yellow leaves scattered in the autumn wind. I shivered, and
pulled my sweater tighter around my chest. “Let’s head back to the hotel,
okay.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">As
John took my hand again, he squeezed it and said, “We’re lucky we have a warm
shelter. The poor people that these statues commemorate had no place to go.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“And
no coats, either,” I sighed.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">That
night, after a rich and filling dinner, we settled into our luxury hotel room.
As I stared into the darkness above me, I tried to imagine what my ancestors
must have experienced during the famine and their journey to America. What
challenges they must have faced when they arrived dirt poor in the place they
hoped would be a land of opportunity. Lying there, gazing at a barely visible
ceiling, I decided I needed to learn more about their story. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">It
needs to be told and not forgotten</span></i><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">, I said to myself. <i>In
many ways, it reminds me of things I’ve heard said about the Jewish Holocaust.
We must remember so these grim parts of history won’t be repeated.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>mferler.blogspot.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02956833526717342736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-167779132265441586.post-66547464942627361552023-05-26T17:25:00.000-07:002023-05-26T17:25:22.745-07:00Fifty Years Ago in Ulster<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6EVLAiq-wY09952WmUBjzHUKXGTHUKmRS1i3HDPA2-IYwWi4311-J-9awSONAD8wD-I07WqK7DELw6eOs2CZyFUjHcI0c1gn3B3HfcfcYgNFoPd_uhtJ41uzp89uI97RmvWEHlSrM2BFTsWIrnhPVNd89b2PfGiHVHJmdIJuuPH-pWIAqJaQ5WC04/s3088/Derry%20City%20Wall%20(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="3088" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6EVLAiq-wY09952WmUBjzHUKXGTHUKmRS1i3HDPA2-IYwWi4311-J-9awSONAD8wD-I07WqK7DELw6eOs2CZyFUjHcI0c1gn3B3HfcfcYgNFoPd_uhtJ41uzp89uI97RmvWEHlSrM2BFTsWIrnhPVNd89b2PfGiHVHJmdIJuuPH-pWIAqJaQ5WC04/s320/Derry%20City%20Wall%20(2).jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Walking along the city wall of old Derry, my mind slipped back to the first time I had
been in Northern Ireland.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was 1973,
and I was in the midst of a semester abroad program through the University of
Edinburgh. One long weekend, I took it into my head to go see Ireland, knowing
from stories my father had told that I had Irish ancestors in my family tree.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Back then, the accepted mode of travel
for students on limited incomes was hitchhiking, and this was how I got from
Edinburgh, Scotland to Liverpool, England. I couldn’t hitchhike across the
Irish Sea, however, so I bought passage on an overnight ferry to Dublin. This
way I didn’t have to pay for lodging.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When I arrived in the Irish capital
early the next morning, I wasn’t sure what to do next. Many friends in college
had talked about the Guinness Brewery, so I went there for free samples. After
a draught or two—or four—I felt energized enough to wander around seeing the
sights. Following my usual travel pattern, I found the Dublin Youth Hostel that
afternoon and stayed the night. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span> </span>The following day, I decided to explore the
countryside of the Emerald Isle. It was only March, but the land was moist and
green, living up to its moniker. As I walked along the roadways, I held out my
thumb each time I heard a vehicle approach. It turned out getting rides in
Ireland was quite easy. The people were very friendly and helpful. In one day I
got all the way from the east coast of Ireland to the western side to Killarney,
whereupon I found the Youth Hostel there, as well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>That evening a rainy cool front moved
in. It struck me that I had only two days to get back to Edinburgh for school.
Unperturbed for the most part, I set out for Dublin again the next morning,
walking along with my thumb out. I’m not sure what I thought I would accomplish
that day since there was no way I could walk all the way across the
Emerald Isle in a day. As it turned out, I didn’t have to. One of the rides
that stopped for me on my trek back from Killarney was a group of three young
men in a small compact car. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“We’re heading over to Kilkenny to
visit a friend,” they said. “He’s sure to have a lunch for us. You’re welcome
to come along.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Some people might say I was foolish to
accept this ride with three males I didn’t know. But in some strange way, I
wasn’t worried. <i>God has seen me safely thus far, </i>I thought<i>. I’ll just
keep following his lead.</i> <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When we arrived in the town of
Kilkenny, they went straight to what looked like an old church. Parking the
little car, they led me into the ancient-looking stone building. A man in a
rough brown monk’s robe met us in the hallway and exclaimed, “Ah, so good to
see you fellows. I see you’ve brought a friend. Come on in, I have a light
lunch here to share. There’s always enough for a guest.” (Years later, I’d
learn there was a deeply-rooted belief in Irish culture to help the stranger or
traveler along their way, whether by food or other means.)<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>After our meal of fruit, cheese, and
bread, the monk asked me, “Where are you heading today, dear?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I have to get to Dublin,” I replied.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ah, well then we’d best help get you
on the right road,” he smiled.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The next thing I knew he was standing
beside me in his long brown robe, helping me thumb a ride. Of course the very
first car stopped. Yes, they were going to Dublin. As I climbed into the car
and waved good-bye to my new friends, I couldn’t help thinking that it would be
nice to have a monk along on future hitchhiking trips.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I arrived back at the Dublin Youth
Hostel shortly after dark. Getting out my map, I contemplated how far I still
had to go in only one day. Another fellow-lodger was looking over my shoulder.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You don’t want to hitch in Northern
Ireland,” he said. “It’s not safe like it is here. The Troubles, you know.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I was well aware of the Protestant and
Catholic violence in Ulster in the 1960s and 70s, so I wasn’t all that keen on
visiting Northern Ireland at all. “I’m not sure I could hitch all the way from
Liverpool to Edinburgh in a day, though,” I said. “The ferry would take half my
travel day.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You could take a train from here to
Belfast.” He pointed at the route on my map. “There you could get to the Larne
Ferry to Scotland. That would connect you with trains to Edinburgh.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This would be more expense than I’d
hoped, but it did give me a guarantee of making it back to my goal in one day.
So the next morning I bought a ticket for the Belfast train.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Riding along, I watched the green
countryside of the Republic of Ireland fall away behind me. Trains often travel
through the bleaker parts of cities and landscapes, and this ride was
punctuated by high walls with barbed wire and broken glass embedded in the tops
of stone or concrete walls.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Once we reached Belfast, I was told I
had to go to a different station to change trains. At an information desk, I
asked the attendant, “Which bus do I need to take to get to the Larne Ferry
train?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No buses are running,” came the
reply. “One was bombed last week.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My heart did a flipflop. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You’ll have to walk,” the attendant’s
voice continued. “Here, take this city map. It shows you which streets to
take.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My heart pounded as I took the city
map and set out in the streets of Belfast. Walking along one row of
glass-fronted shops—with bars protecting them from possible outside violence--I
happened to hear a low rumble. When I turned my head, I saw a huge armored tank
rolling by, British soldiers--with their guns ready--seated on top.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This was the mental picture my mind
jumped back to when I was standing on the ancient city wall of Londonderry
almost fifty years later, looking at the fence constructed to keep out the
Molotov Cocktails which were being thrown from Bogside.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 5;"> </span>***<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As our tour group walked to the next
stop, I told the guide about this Belfast adventure, especially the tank.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“How old were you?” he asked.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Not quite twenty-one.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I find it very surprising that you’d
so such things alone, and so young.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I shrugged. “Maybe I was foolish, but
God took care of me.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>mferler.blogspot.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02956833526717342736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-167779132265441586.post-10896526749538555342023-05-05T11:39:00.001-07:002023-05-05T11:55:27.234-07:00Beginnings of "An Irish Odyssey"<p> </p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">An
Irish Odyssey<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Chapter
1<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI5ovdZK6n4qWnJe_Ffd9i-l-oEvljXJda5RB0iK2BJWrGjZR66ILnhoMGKqsDAG_Pg5G92yKto19N1xI7ZtLi6lcWc6HFleOxhwmZG-KpxrOmKatrY13e1XDx0zvknexqEKW7VpI4t07MUkvx9MYwQx7UAXVhMidUWevWbj7mmKC2zJIPtphqPLEs/s4608/DSCN9562.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI5ovdZK6n4qWnJe_Ffd9i-l-oEvljXJda5RB0iK2BJWrGjZR66ILnhoMGKqsDAG_Pg5G92yKto19N1xI7ZtLi6lcWc6HFleOxhwmZG-KpxrOmKatrY13e1XDx0zvknexqEKW7VpI4t07MUkvx9MYwQx7UAXVhMidUWevWbj7mmKC2zJIPtphqPLEs/s320/DSCN9562.JPG" width="320" /></a></b></div><b><br /><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></b><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></b><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 12pt;">The sign pierced my deepest mind:
“England is Ireland’s Enemy.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">It
was as harsh in its style as in its words, printed in black block letters on white,
a sign framed on a metal stand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not
your usual graffiti, and there was plenty of that in Londonderry’s streets,
even in 2022.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As we walked along the city wall of
Old Derry, our guide pointed out where the wall had been raised and augmented
by chain link fencing and razor wire.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Below us,” he said, “Is the Catholic
neighborhood of Bogside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Up here on the
other side of the wall is one of the headquarters of the Protestant
forces.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why do you think they made this
wall higher?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“To keep the Catholics out?” said a
member of our tour group.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Even more than that,” the guide
replied.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“People down below would throw
bottles filled with flammable liquid over the wall and into this building.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ah, Molotov Cocktails,” someone else
said.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes,” said the guide.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m confused,” I said. “I thought The
Troubles ended with the Good Friday Peace Treaty in 1998.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I suppose you could say so in
theory,” the guide added. “But even now each side has different interpretations
of what that document means. I guess you could say it ended the particular
Troubles here in Northern Ireland, but the sectarian differences between
Ireland and England are deep-rooted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
history goes all the way back to the English King Henry VIII, in the sixteenth
century. That was when Henry established the Church of England, the beginning
of Protestantism.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“So he could defy the Pope, right?”
said a woman beside me.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes, and all because he wanted to
divorce his first wife so he could marry Anne Boleyn,” added a man behind me.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Our guide was smiling and nodding his
head. “The strangest part is that both sides—Protestant and Catholic—living
here in Ireland rarely attend church.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“So it’s not really about religion at
all—”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Of course not,” the guide
nodded.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“It’s all politics, and always
has been. England has always considered this island a big problem, ever since
King Henry. One side commits violent atrocities, and the other side retaliates
in the same way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The spiral never really
ends, though right now we’re in a period of relative peace.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Except for the occasional Molotov
Cocktail?” the man behind me laughed.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m confused,” I said, raising my
hand. “Which name is correct here—Derry or Londonderry?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Again he smiled, “If you’re Catholic,
it’s Derry. And if you’re Protestant it’s Londonderry.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>mferler.blogspot.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02956833526717342736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-167779132265441586.post-6151260235926627282023-03-26T18:50:00.001-07:002023-03-26T18:50:46.964-07:00It Wasn't My Superpower--It Was God's<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5BWWL7lzlQWO_nwAEHlS_up0JQbXLbeK0Nge1FnK0lIz_A1ufpjtQ355IV1959v4-2z_fEq9k53A1TZMpOAJGhbMAl714bvg_vaoPg8UGYWM4byvEsRhnxpbW_3TzSYShikoPwt6lx3_6JJxDeAQZLVHxGmwkjdgpyK0uxDrPeQalUVxSQflKCpyZ/s3088/piano%20socks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="3088" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5BWWL7lzlQWO_nwAEHlS_up0JQbXLbeK0Nge1FnK0lIz_A1ufpjtQ355IV1959v4-2z_fEq9k53A1TZMpOAJGhbMAl714bvg_vaoPg8UGYWM4byvEsRhnxpbW_3TzSYShikoPwt6lx3_6JJxDeAQZLVHxGmwkjdgpyK0uxDrPeQalUVxSQflKCpyZ/w230-h230/piano%20socks.jpg" width="230" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p>This week I finally retired from a 31-year career of teaching music. During those years I taught private lessons in piano and guitar, even oboe. Also taught preschool music classes through Kindermusik and Musikgarten, classroom elementary general music, beginning band, and directed many children's and adult choirs. I've lost count of how many Christmas Concerts and Spring Programs I put on.</p><p>It all started in 1990, when my 9-year-old son missed the children's choir, from our former home in Montana, after we moved to Michigan. At his urging I started one at our new church home in Tawas City, Michigan. One thing led to another after that, as God slowly nudged me into a field I never thought I was qualified for. The children's choir led to adult choirs, and my piano teacher in Michigan, Kaye Phelps, encouraged me to begin teaching beginners. She mentored me and knew when to push me, as I learned more than I could ever have imagined. Teaching something really increases your learning, I discovered. By the time we had to leave Michigan and return to Montana, I'd been teaching music over 16 years.</p><p>During this same period, the Lord got me in the "back door" of a Master's in Music Education program at Concordia University, near Chicago. I was able to take my classes there in the summer, so I could continue my music teaching jobs in Michigan, and graduated with an MME in 1998. I still look back amazed that I was admitted to a Master's of Music program with no Bachelor's degree in music. My BS was in Biology and Environmental Education!</p><p> When my husband retired and we returned to build our retirement home here in Montana, part of the floor plan included a music studio. Here I taught students of all ages, from preschool through senior citizens for another 15 years. Once I reached 70, I knew it was time to retire, and move on. God had morphed me into a music teacher by giving me the skills I needed. It was not my talent, but His, and He deserves all the glory. He provided me with what I needed to do the ministry He called me to.</p><p>I have been blessed with getting to know over 500 students over these past years. And many tell me that I have blessed them, too, with the gift of music--whether they moved into music teaching and performance themselves, or just enjoy playing or listening to a favorite song. Those are things, I still hope to do. Some of the most-beloved songs of my teaching years now bring tears of joy to my eyes.</p><p>I don't know what God has in store for me around the next bend, but I know He has a plan. Right now it looks like I'll still be writing some historical fiction, and doing acrylic painting. (The music studio is already in the process of being converted.) One of my favorite composers, Johann Sebastian Bach, wrote these letters at the end of every piece he composed: <b>SDG</b>. They stand for the Latin words, "Soli Deo Gloria" -- <b>To</b> <b>God Alone Be the Glory!</b> That's my motto, too.</p>mferler.blogspot.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02956833526717342736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-167779132265441586.post-87450841639384921782023-02-27T09:33:00.001-08:002023-02-27T09:33:41.069-08:00I Thought This Was Pure Fantasy, But Now It's All Around Me<p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> <span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Has anyone else noticed how our culture is shifting away from the written word to the visual? I don't even know how many streaming services are out there. Many people don't want to read a book if they can watch it on a screen. (I know some of you still read, so don't get mad at me. Otherwise you wouldn't be reading this.)</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPTN3NGgQyTcUdvYfoNg3FG6TgeqEWSh-RBum4aY70ojOCDZvhVxdxV6bmUvnk-bU0vABxSZ35k9D2__t69nw6CUjmxuqXESXro6AgA76tzrQwz3zN8opeFzzZD2591UdvzrqgD-Pf9Id2aWBLdYq-A29wFTGF1rxaDdg7mUidUZYrOto1PvLnnbPq/s1856/-New%20Peaks%20Cover%201.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1856" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPTN3NGgQyTcUdvYfoNg3FG6TgeqEWSh-RBum4aY70ojOCDZvhVxdxV6bmUvnk-bU0vABxSZ35k9D2__t69nw6CUjmxuqXESXro6AgA76tzrQwz3zN8opeFzzZD2591UdvzrqgD-Pf9Id2aWBLdYq-A29wFTGF1rxaDdg7mUidUZYrOto1PvLnnbPq/s320/-New%20Peaks%20Cover%201.jpg" width="207" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span><p></p><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">For me, all this streaming, YouTube, TicToc, etc, reminds me of the future world I projected in my first book, "Peaks at the Edge of the World"-- where <span style="font-family: inherit;"><a style="color: #385898; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit;" tabindex="-1"></a></span>books are obsolete and forbidden. It's almost scary to see it coming to pass all around me. By the way, I must add that the seed of my idea was inspired by Ray Bradbury's "Fahrenheit 451".</div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">From my first book, begun 50 years ago and first published 10 years ago, several other have been spawned. And my focus has moved from sci-fi to fantasy, and on into historical and contemporary fiction.</div></div>mferler.blogspot.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02956833526717342736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-167779132265441586.post-21429737272218523002022-12-27T13:51:00.000-08:002022-12-27T13:51:01.298-08:00In the Deep Midwinter<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWUgqzwznsLpTLDBJr4LaBM1FELcS4L1ACB_JBxuDSxQTzOl2Ja26I_NG-NS2oK5JS3n4KlUxjYm19r_6oNA0OsYTbInacOYTzwCDZlX3JZgTzTf0CpN-O9twfMk_YExashFms_J8gGtj5KC2IGPDyLOR_fDvOkVjI-kyxRL370cH95YpBtubbX0vZ/s3088/Better%20Cascade%20Peak.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="3088" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWUgqzwznsLpTLDBJr4LaBM1FELcS4L1ACB_JBxuDSxQTzOl2Ja26I_NG-NS2oK5JS3n4KlUxjYm19r_6oNA0OsYTbInacOYTzwCDZlX3JZgTzTf0CpN-O9twfMk_YExashFms_J8gGtj5KC2IGPDyLOR_fDvOkVjI-kyxRL370cH95YpBtubbX0vZ/s320/Better%20Cascade%20Peak.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> As the year of 2022 comes to a close, I feel a wisp of melancholy seeping into me. Nothing in the world is any better than it was last year. In fact, things are just continuing to get worse.<p></p><p>I know it's partly the effect of the short days, long nights, and gloomy weather. I admit I do have SAD ( seasonal Affective Disorder) so I try to sit under my full spectrum light as much as I can.</p><p>But some things are not like they used to be. Just as an example, our winter this year arrived on November 1, which is technically the middle of fall. The ancient festival of Samhain, which we celebrate as Halloween, marks the midpoint between the Summer Solstice and the Autumn Equinox. Odds are that our winter here will last until nearly May 1, which some still celebrate as May Day. It's the outgrowth of an ancient festival, Beltane, which marks the midpoint between the Spring Equinox and the Summer Solstice. The result is our winters up here in northern Montana can last 6 months, from Samhain to Beltane. Not complaining, just telling the truth as I see it here. I think the Celtic peoples had it right. They called Samhain the last day of autumn, and Beltane the first say of spring. Sure fits here.</p><p> Sometimes friends tease me and say, "What happened to Global Warming? I remember when Climate Change used to be called Global Warming. A lot of people in the southeastern US this year are probably wondering why they have broken all kinds of cold temperature records. We have actually broken cold temperature records here in Montana, too. At least half the US has been crippled by what is being called "The Blizzard of the Century." I hate to say this, but more extremes in weather patterns are one of the effects of Climate Change. Some places will receive extreme cold or heat. The "usual" storms like blizzards and hurricanes will become more intense as our earth's atmosphere tries to adjust to the changes in temperatures of our bodies of water, especially the oceans. Sorry to say this, but the next "Blizzard of the Century" may happen well before we reach the 22nd century.</p><p>Many people claim there is no such thing as Climate Change because they don't want the status quo of our energy systems or their pocketbooks and stock market investments to change. But no matter whether people believe it or not, these storms, droughts, and potential famines are going to continue. Maybe all this isn't caused by human activities, but change is coming one way or another. And there's nothing we can do about it, except perhaps try to control our carbon dioxide emissions, and be more prepared for extreme and unusual weather. For example, I think the South needs to take this as a wakeup call. </p><p>I often wonder if becoming a snowbird would help me with these long winter blues I tend to get. My hubby and I have investigated various possible places to go, but none of them feel right so far. (Last March we went to southern Utah and northern Arizona, only to encounter cold weather and snow there, too.) And after this huge Christmas storm, I think I'd rather stay here up north, where we are prepared for this type of weather.</p><p>At any rate, I'm considering joining my cat. With the record cold, she started spending her days sequestered in my stuffed closet, hiding under my overhanging clothes, and other piles of stuff I've accumulated in there.</p><p><br /></p>mferler.blogspot.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02956833526717342736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-167779132265441586.post-12975954128304274442022-12-15T13:58:00.000-08:002022-12-15T13:58:45.897-08:00Wishing You All a Most Blessed Christmas!<p>This fall has left me behind. When we got home from Britain the end of September, I had a cold (or something) which set me back. October slipped by and winter arrived early on November 1. Yikes. So I haven't been writing much as I try to get all my ducks in a row. I have good ideas for blogs but they never seem to make it to my computer. Sorry. Here's a joint project by Paul, me, and our cat, Josie.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpGafZmOQ9-T0r2bPxelzthrIw6bx30HpxHv0MRs7gw_8oN3H4joHNCty-HSZpSuQdnMdzHBcH-I5Rs4Ij9OpYRj09fzx0teCnCu1kCEJzT2FI2QvBUfdZX0sh1GB9JxQ1Hg00Zj7CqJs71aWNOC3VfTMpd2DdXPoBANMSjJSMx30KMBYcF20Dk2C6/s3088/Paul%20&%20Frances%20at%20Stonehenge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="3088" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpGafZmOQ9-T0r2bPxelzthrIw6bx30HpxHv0MRs7gw_8oN3H4joHNCty-HSZpSuQdnMdzHBcH-I5Rs4Ij9OpYRj09fzx0teCnCu1kCEJzT2FI2QvBUfdZX0sh1GB9JxQ1Hg00Zj7CqJs71aWNOC3VfTMpd2DdXPoBANMSjJSMx30KMBYcF20Dk2C6/w320-h320/Paul%20&%20Frances%20at%20Stonehenge.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Greetings from Montana!<span style="mso-tab-count: 7;"> </span>Christmas
2022<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I (Paul) just
returned from a hike with a Thursday group called Over the Hill Gang.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a lovely sunny day and a cold start at
8 degrees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a good time to think
about this year’s Christmas letter as we hiked to a fire lookout overlooking
Glacier National Park, The thought hit me on the way down after sharing the
trip Frances and I took in September. We traveled to the British Isles after
two years being postponed due to Covid restrictions. We flew to London and were
met outside the terminal and led by hand to our hotel. It was so nice to let
the tour director take it from there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Twenty two days on land tour, 17 hotels and 3600 miles covered
throughout England, Wales, Ireland and Scotland. Okay, so what has this to do
with our annual Christmas message? Well, as part of the tour we were entitled
to having a porter bring our baggage to our room and upon leaving pick it up
outside our door in the morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our
pastor recently preached a series talking about the baggage we all carry around
with us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What did he mean about
baggage?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The baggage of past mistakes,
failures, fighting, revenge, gossip, just everyday mean thoughts or dislikes we
carry with us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In other words, our
sinful nature.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Okay it’s another one of
Paul’s sermons but please hang on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You
see Christ Jesus came to earth to carry our baggage of sin. He carried it to
the cross for us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We could do nothing on
our own, as this baggage is much too heavy and bulky to carry ourselves. That’s
it, all I have to say! Christ is the reason for our Christmas season. His birth
and resurrection is for all who believe. We pray you recognize his love and
grace for you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thank Him for carrying
the load.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Merry Christmas, and God’s
blessings in the New Year!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Okay, it’s my turn now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Allow me to introduce myself. I’m <b>Josie,</b> the Erler’s cat for the
past 4 years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I came from the Humane
Society as a very well-fed stray, over 20 pounds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I want to make clear that Paul and Frances
aren’t my owners. They’re my staff, being sure I’m fed twice a day, petted
& cuddled often, and cleaned up after. My main activities are eating and
sleeping. I also like it when Frances’ piano students come to pet me and say
hello. I think there are 9 students right now. Most of the time I recline
beside my scratching pole in the sunshine by the sliding door. I don’t like to
go outside, and don’t catch any mice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>When they travel, I have to go to Emilie’s house on the other side of
town. I hate riding in the car, and spend most of my time there hiding under
Emilie’s bed. Mike, her boyfriend, pets me and calls me “Fat Cat.” I spent ten
days there last spring during Spring Break, another two weeks in July when they
went camping with dear friends the Sundbergs and Hazelbakers in Idaho, and a
whole month when they went on that trip to the British Isles. And they never
brought me any presents! (</span><span style="font-family: "Segoe UI Emoji",sans-serif; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-char-type: symbol-ext; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-symbol-font-family: "Segoe UI Emoji";">☹</span><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">)
Emilie got some, though. By the way, they did see that pile of ancient rocks
called Stonehenge. I also enjoyed getting acquainted with Frances’ brother Dan
when he came in August.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">As Paul already told you, he still hikes about once a week,
Frances tries to get walks and Tai Chi classes in at the health club.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Both are singing in choirs again. They’re
happy Covid restrictions are over—for now. Frances still writes books.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her next one<b>, “Lauren’s Dark Passage”</b>
is coming out in April 2023, and one more is in the publisher’s hands, too,
probably for 2024. She’s kept busy with her Christian Women’s Club and a new
Christian Writers’ Group called Footprints. Oh yeah, she’s also started acrylic
painting, and even sold a couple of pictures. Paul still creates wall décor
with upcycled piano parts. He is running out of parts, though, so if anyone has
an old piano to take apart, he would love to have the keys. This year they were
accepted for a juried arts and crafts show at the Kalispell Fairgrounds over
Thanksgiving weekend. Frances puts photos of the products on her Facebook page:
“Frances Erler” or you can email mferler@peaksandbeyond.com <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Emilie and Jon are still teaching, though that job gets more
challenging every year. I’m told Emilie is in her 16<sup>th</sup> year of
teaching kindergarten here in Montana. Jon teaches Middle School Social Studies
in Washington State. I never go to school, since I’m just a cat. But I’d rather
sleep in the sun, anyway. Emilie goes hiking a lot, once or twice a week. Jon
likes to camp and hike in the Washington Cascades, too. He and his roommate,
Adam, have started gardening—flowers and vegetables—in pots on their patio.
Emilie also gardens in pots on her deck. I don’t think Paul and Frances are
much into gardening anymore. Visitors are always welcome here at my house. I
may even jump on your bed. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">MEOWY CHRISTMAS!<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZxlwjT4vFx4OhIaTw9D0ZtesN4rGwabW8-uJbWCYv-QbKZc8h5kELFwHfvmC2eMYi5eydgf2P-lYVlSelgWdY85oXcSUAwLzUFEw0lHqpk6Pj59iEMmapCULTskAhotMBY30zvKImg3cbMusUCdcRi3vst45bOnIeD57kV1myZ84WaSUcr1T9sJIQ/s4128/Josie%20on%20the%20afghan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3096" data-original-width="4128" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZxlwjT4vFx4OhIaTw9D0ZtesN4rGwabW8-uJbWCYv-QbKZc8h5kELFwHfvmC2eMYi5eydgf2P-lYVlSelgWdY85oXcSUAwLzUFEw0lHqpk6Pj59iEMmapCULTskAhotMBY30zvKImg3cbMusUCdcRi3vst45bOnIeD57kV1myZ84WaSUcr1T9sJIQ/s320/Josie%20on%20the%20afghan.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>mferler.blogspot.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02956833526717342736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-167779132265441586.post-76764097113298010882022-08-30T11:00:00.000-07:002022-08-30T11:00:07.572-07:00Some Thoughts on Economics and Equality<p> <span> </span><span> Some people think I'm a Socialist because I tend to point out problems I see with Capitalism. But that's not the case. It's just that I do see some things about our current economic system that are problematic. I remember asking my dad about this years ago, when I was only 14 years old. (Guess I've always been a deep thinker.) </span></p><p><span><span> Dad's response was, "Well, it works better than anything else that's been tried, like Socialism or Communism." He was right, of course. But in all the 66 years of my life since then, I still haven't found an answer to my question.</span><br /></span></p><p><span><span> </span><span> The first problem I see with Capitalism is that in many ways it's still a class-based system like the one that has dominated Western Civilization almost since its inception. We still have an elite group even though it's now not royalty or feudal property owners. Now we have CEO's and well-paid lobbyists and lawyers, who keep the wealth concentrated in the hands of a powerful few.</span><br /></span></p><p><span><span><span> </span><span> And in order for these people on the top to have the "capital" to invest in industrial growth, that money needs to be concentrated with them, or so the system assumes. This means Capitalism needs a large supply of cheap labor in order to amass these funds for the top. </span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span> </span><span> </span>By the way, the word "Capo" in Latin, and the Romance languages descended from it, means literally "the Top" or "the Head". It's where we get the words Cap, Capital, and Capitalism. (Ask any musician what D.C. means in a piece of music, and they'll tell you it means go back to the beginning, or the "Top" of the piece.)</span><br /></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span> </span><span> The history of our American Economy illustrates this idea of cheap labor well. In the beginning of the Industrial Revolution, there was a surplus of cheap labor--immigrants, even slaves, children and women. After Child Labor Laws were established and slavery was abolished, there were still floods of poor immigrants coming in from around the world. They were looking for a better life for themselves and their families, and so they were willing to accept menial and even dangerous jobs for low wages, in hopes of improving things for their descendants.</span><br /></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span> </span><span> Yes, there were a few large companies who took better care of their workers than most did. But it was mainly churches and other non-profit organizations who tried to help the desperate poor. It's no wonder that the idea of Labor Unions and Collective Bargaining found fertile soil with many of the poorly-treated laborers. Most people seem to forget that is what Labor Day, the first Monday in September, is observing. Now it's become nothing more than another long weekend, a celebration of the end of summer, and another chance for businesses large and small to promote and advertise themselves through "Labor Day Sales."</span><br /></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span> </span><span> Now that the flow of cheap labor has dropped drastically because of labor laws and curbs on immigration, it's really no surprise that most large companies have outsourced their manufacturing to Third World countries where they can still find cheap labor. But what will happen when that source dries up?</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> </span><span> I admit that I don't have any answers, but I think we need to mull over some of these things. How can we have an economy that gives dignity to everyone? How can America really fulfill its promise of "life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness" to every citizen, not just an elite few? I hesitate to point this out, but the men who wrote the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution were landed gentry, part of "The Top" of society at that time. They said, "All men are created equal", but many of them owned slaves. Were they thinking of them as "equal"? I'm not sure. Even after over 200 years of existence, our country hasn't really reached this ideal of equality.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> No, I'm not a Communist or a Socialist. Those systems haven't worked either. Human greed and government corruption eroded them. In fact, that seems to be what is happening to our country, too. No one wants the parties to sit down and submit to arbitration. No one seems to be looking for what is fair, for "Liberty and Justice for <b>All</b>" as we say in our Pledge of Allegiance. Instead, we're divided into camps that shout at each other rather than talking to each other. Each side vilifying the other as wrong, and claiming their side to be right. This is a dangerous road. At this point, all I feel I can do is pray to God in Heaven to heal and help us learn to be more like Him--for He is the one who truly wants liberty, justice, and hope for every one of us.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p>mferler.blogspot.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02956833526717342736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-167779132265441586.post-47585425305230515742022-08-25T13:17:00.000-07:002022-08-25T13:17:01.111-07:00In the World, But Not Of It<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Jesus told his disciples to be "In the world, but not of the world."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc38d2O9nlE8D1qiPm4t_N_ndkC7XmXpV6SY7H9mXvC3JvzUIvUUm0fCIBz5dezLVayvqOUM8OBVR3fiw4uqtDSZrQHHz1ei2nmJjuDY6m1gU4KnvdNOL7nI6WVmsQjxJYOoT-zY5Z-8BuAhAMj1A87K9sbkgPPUl5H2ybkoKKZtv7nPYySgGMJ9ps/s4128/Huron%20Sunrise.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4128" data-original-width="3096" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc38d2O9nlE8D1qiPm4t_N_ndkC7XmXpV6SY7H9mXvC3JvzUIvUUm0fCIBz5dezLVayvqOUM8OBVR3fiw4uqtDSZrQHHz1ei2nmJjuDY6m1gU4KnvdNOL7nI6WVmsQjxJYOoT-zY5Z-8BuAhAMj1A87K9sbkgPPUl5H2ybkoKKZtv7nPYySgGMJ9ps/w200-h266/Huron%20Sunrise.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> That's a tricky balancing act, I've found. Some Christians move too far out of the world, isolating themselves from all other things, even living off the grid. Some climb into ivory towers where they can look down on everything else. To me this is a way of proclaiming they're the only ones who are right, and everyone else is wrong. </span><div><br /><div><span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> Now, I'm not saying to conform to every view the present world is throwing at us, or turn our backs on God or His Word in the Bible. But lording it over others, and trying to force them into our views is not the way Jesus spread the Gospel. And it's not the way he told his followers to do this, either.</span> Jesus met people where they were. He asked them what their needs were, and then he gave them those things and proclaimed that God loved them. He didn't say they had to obey all the legalistic laws the current religious establishment was requiring. There were no hoops to jump through to earn God's love.</span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span> At the center of everything Jesus did when he walked this earth was love--overwhelming love that went so far as to lay down his life for us. St. Paul puts it this way in his letter to the Romans 5:8 "But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While <i>we were still sinners,</i> Christ died for us." (italics mine)</span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span><span> <span> </span><span> </span><span> </span> So what does this mean in daily life, where the rubber hits the road? St. Peter put it this way in his first letter: I Peter 3:15-16 "Always be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you to give the reason for the hope that you have. But do this with gentleness and respect, </span> keeping a clear conscience, so that those who speak maliciously against your good behavior in Christ may be ashamed of their slander."</span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span> <b> The best visual example I can think of is that Jesus wants us to be Lighthouses. Not dark, angry defensive Fortresses.</b><br /></span></div><div><span> <span> </span><span> </span><span> </span></span><br /> <p></p></div></div>mferler.blogspot.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02956833526717342736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-167779132265441586.post-16230336602097080292022-08-15T09:43:00.001-07:002022-08-15T09:43:15.839-07:00Lo, How a Rose...<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaBXBHGWo0eo4E-Uk6n1CfDbVZeVYaR1DgnwXQ8hdmCTzqbS9UqrrWUuqGHUJo596Iiu12PooPP1qPDqDyt_7QXxcZWIoU55Eo2lG03L4PyrfchXwQkMb1t-j9ZZAfGj1sm9BRozXiwb-uOwfs_HCshGBdWDxR274-a1tGWdnpWxgshst3fY3lChdv/s640/Jon's%20roses.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="640" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaBXBHGWo0eo4E-Uk6n1CfDbVZeVYaR1DgnwXQ8hdmCTzqbS9UqrrWUuqGHUJo596Iiu12PooPP1qPDqDyt_7QXxcZWIoU55Eo2lG03L4PyrfchXwQkMb1t-j9ZZAfGj1sm9BRozXiwb-uOwfs_HCshGBdWDxR274-a1tGWdnpWxgshst3fY3lChdv/s320/Jon's%20roses.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><i><br /> "Lo, How a Rose E'er Blooming"</i> is a well-known Christmas carol to many. It is centuries old, as one can tell if they read the original words. It may have been a Old English Madrigal, sung on the streets of city, town, and village. I like it so much that I chose it as part of the music for our wedding in 1975.<p></p><p>In the interest of translating hymns into modern English, however, the title has changed to <i>"Lo, How a Rose Is Growing."</i> Sounds nice enough, right? But something is lost in "translation", unfortunately. The hyphenated word "E're" literally means ever, or even better: FOREVER. Not just growing, but never dying. Why is this important? Because that rose represents Jesus, who was born as a baby, became a man, died, and rose from the grave--conquering death. His Rose will Never Die!</p><p>Besides that, he cried, hungered, grew tired, felt pain, and all the other things human bodies experience. To think the the Lord of the Universe would stoop down so low, to be like us weak, fallible humans is beyond comprehension.</p><p>So what does all this have to do with my son's rose bush? When he bought his house almost 2 years ago, there was this bare stump in one of the flower beds. He did nothing to it, no watering, no pruning, but fortunately he didn't dig it up. And lo and behold, it began to bloom this year!</p><p>What a perfect picture of Jesus' resurrection! <b> Lo, How a Rose Forever Blooming!</b> </p>mferler.blogspot.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02956833526717342736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-167779132265441586.post-8923754245042399272022-07-17T15:01:00.001-07:002022-07-17T15:01:34.379-07:00A Farewell to Words<p><span style="font-family: arial;"><b>It appears that blogs are becoming a things of the past. In fact, my son told me that over 6 years ago when I first started blogging at the urging of my publisher. Now the women writers group I've belonged to for several years has ended their blogsite, too. Nobody cares what someone else thinks anymore. Our world is turning to visuals--pops of color, silly videos, photos. If you can't say what you need to say in 10 words of less, no one listens. Our world of instant everything has shortened our attention spans to almost nothing. Just go into any kindergarten class in the nation and you will see where the future of our world is heading.</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><b>It's ironic that my first book, "The Peaks at the Edge of the World" depicted a future where the written word is obsolete and no one reads "old fashioned" books anymore. Books are frowned on and eventually banned altogether. Everything is on a household terminal in the form of pictures and the spoken word. This opens the door for anyone in power who says something to go back and deny it was said. There is no written record, and digital records are easy to change. Thus, it's simple to change history to meet any slant or bias that has moved into the limelight. Sound familiar?</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><b>Yes, the scary part is that many of us see it happening in our world already. The words of Simon and Garfunkel in "The Sounds of Silence" have become prophetic: "People talking without speaking" is happening all around us, as everyone is tied to their smart phones, texting. I know. I do it, too. If I want to get hold of any person under 40, the only way is to text them. Hardly anyone answers voicemails anymore.</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><b>Today is my 70th birthday. Looking back on my life, I think the years between 40 and 60 were the best. It's been downhill ever since. And the way our world is going, I fervently hope that I don't live past 80. I don't want to end up a vegetable with Alzheimer's like my mother did. </b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><b>In my first book, there were a few rebels who held out and collected and read books, but the were always in danger of being discovered and punished. If I am forced to live into an age like that, I know I will be one of those "Rebel Readers."</b></span></p>mferler.blogspot.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02956833526717342736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-167779132265441586.post-29251247609418225052022-05-23T09:21:00.000-07:002022-05-23T09:21:10.709-07:00When God Calls, He Also Provides<p> My Erler's Musical Expressions music party (not a recital) yesterday was well received. Five of my seven families were able to be there. Parents and grandparents of my students came to me afterwards and thanked me for my work, and especially for focusing on the joys of music. I think it all goes back to my early training in Environmental Education, Kindermusik, and Musikgarten: "Process, not product is the key." and "Follow the Child." In other words, I try to focus on each one's interests and learning style.</p><p>At the party, I let each student volunteer to play a piece of their choice, and every one did, even though I didn't require it. I also focused on the community that was present, briefly introducing the families to each other. Because we're all in this together--teacher, student, and home. It's not my accomplishment; it's all of us combined. As the saying goes, "It takes a village."</p><p>My dear hubby, Paul, was such a big help! Setting up, cleaning up, and just giving moral support. I'm so blessed to be married to him. It was a lot of work, but it was well invested. </p><p>When my mentor in Michigan, Kaye Phelps, guided me into teaching, I felt unqualified. But God has given me what I needed, because this is a ministry He has called me to. I'm reminded of the passages in Exodus where God called Moses to free the Israelites from Egypt. He kept telling God, "I'm not a good speaker. I can't do this." But God told Moses, he would provide what he needed. And He did.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-w1vVeXLztc0E3Kktb6A0lAahGtP9hC5fYObf3DJkKNHXV-lpd58j7nO0RsBwBXNYXeU3_0tIB-Y0-H8y9hMxiARfrVu63A3YxTUWIRUswDDJ0IlMC_pf_aIURUReb7X-REnplhPHpWw0G5RyLBUZyZ_1AtxHmfY3rDuo6zZrq33lMciHx7Gp3apn/s4128/20210610_09045%20ND%20book%20table.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4128" data-original-width="3096" height="349" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-w1vVeXLztc0E3Kktb6A0lAahGtP9hC5fYObf3DJkKNHXV-lpd58j7nO0RsBwBXNYXeU3_0tIB-Y0-H8y9hMxiARfrVu63A3YxTUWIRUswDDJ0IlMC_pf_aIURUReb7X-REnplhPHpWw0G5RyLBUZyZ_1AtxHmfY3rDuo6zZrq33lMciHx7Gp3apn/w262-h349/20210610_09045%20ND%20book%20table.jpg" width="262" /></a></div><br />After 30 years of teaching music, I see even more clearly how God has used me--not only for the sake of music, but for the sake of my many students and families over those years.<p></p><p>I don't have the energy I did 30 years ago, but I'm thankful the Lord continues to give me the strength to serve him in this way.</p>mferler.blogspot.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02956833526717342736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-167779132265441586.post-52536199965904543322022-05-10T15:20:00.001-07:002022-05-10T15:20:37.213-07:00The Core Motivation for My Writing<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Although we see
evidence of God, Providence, Nature—or whatever you choose to call it—he /she/it
is still unknowable to our limited perspective. I’ve read that a relationship
with this entity is like a dance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
lead partner must step back so the follower partner knows to step forward.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the same way, God—our partner—may seem to
be withdrawing or stepping away from us in times of confusion, doubt, or
suffering.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, this is really an
invitation for us to draw closer to him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It’s as though he is saying, “I have more to show you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Come closer to me.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This reminds me of what Aslan kept telling
those he was taking into paradise in the seventh <i>Narnia</i> book, <i>The
Last Battle</i>:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Come higher up, come
deeper in.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In the end, it all stems from Love—not a coddling or
clinging sort of love.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a love that
transcends and remains unknowable to our finite minds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once we move “deeper in” as Aslan said, we
begin to see what St. John wrote in the Bible, “Dear friends, we are already
God’s children, right now, and we can’t even imagine what it is going to be
like later on.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or St. Paul who said, “Now all that I know is
hazy and blurred, but then I will see everything clearly, just as clearly as
God sees into my heart right now.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>(Quotes from The Living Bible Paraphrase)<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This love and the dance it creates is the common thread
that runs through all my works, and through all my life, for that matter.<o:p></o:p></span></p>mferler.blogspot.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02956833526717342736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-167779132265441586.post-62503975202190416982022-04-06T09:20:00.001-07:002022-04-06T09:20:51.537-07:00A Meaningful Life<p> Like many of my peers in the 1960s, I wanted to change our world for the better. I wanted to leave my mark and do great things. But it didn't turn out the way I expected. Instead of making me a leader and famous author, God morphed me into a music teacher.</p><p>Teachers in general, and especially teachers in the arts fields, are often seen as superfluous in our culture. Something nice to have, if the school can afford it, but usually the first thing cut when budgets are tight. The result for me has been a marginal income and very few "benefits" as the world describes them.</p><p>But for me personally, the benefits have been awesome, even though in our culture they aren't often recognized. I am not a greatly talented musician. My dad said I couldn't carry a tune in a bucket. I taught myself to play guitar so I could sing on key and not stray off from the correct tune. I worked hard to gain the skills that came naturally to many of my friends and relatives. All my life I'd wanted to learn to play piano, and I finally got to take formal lessons after age 30. </p><p>I was completely surprised when my piano teacher, Kaye, urged me to teach some beginning piano students she couldn't fit into her schedule. She told me I didn't have to be a virtuoso to teach, that it was a different set of skills, and she saw them in me. What a wonderful door she opened for me!</p><p>Here I am 30 years later, still teaching and enjoying the interaction with each and every student. I love the opportunity to focus on each one's particular interests and learning styles. They are all unique. I also enjoy the relationships that are built as I share my love of music with them. </p><p>I have been blessed to have touched so many young lives--I lost count at 300. But the biggest blessing has been to be touched by them. I am still in touch with some of my former students via social media (It's not all bad.) They knew me when they were children, and now some of them are married and having children of their own. Some of them are even music teachers who can now play much better than I do. </p><p>I'm touched and humbled to have been given this opportunity to teach. Now I see that it was a calling from God, a ministry he had planned for me. What natural talents I lacked, he provided, in order that he might have the glory, not me.</p><p>A meaningful life? Perhaps not in the eyes of the world. But it has been precious, indeed!</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>mferler.blogspot.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02956833526717342736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-167779132265441586.post-24159262784804257952022-03-03T13:16:00.002-08:002022-03-03T13:16:50.875-08:00Memoir or Fiction? This Is the Question<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The Truth Behind the Fictionalized
Memoir<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">For the past couple of months, I’ve been trying to
understand the difference between <b>autobiographical fiction</b> and <b>fictionalized
memoir</b>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It seems to me that it’s
mostly a matter of how much the author reveals of his or her personal
life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With this is mind, I’ve been
laboring on a memoir for the past few years, but to “protect the innocent” I
have changed names, settings, and sequences of events.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I guess that means it is a fictionalized
memoir.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">However, in the interest of being an advocate for
mental health, I have realized I need to share my true story, so here it is.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Yes, according to the calendar it’s spring, but all
of us in Northwest Montana know that real spring is still a month or more
away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Winter is often a difficult time
for people who suffer from depression.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m
no exception.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For most of my life I
tried to hide this behind a shield of pretense, but that took a heavy toll on
my physical and mental health.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was
afraid of the stigma attached to mental health issues.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Things really took a nosedive in 2003 with
menopause, as anxiety and chronic migraines were added to the mix.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In 2005, after trying herbal remedies for
years (St. John’s Wort, Feverfew, Black Cohosh, to name a few), and one
antidepressant (Zoloft) that made me violently ill, I finally agreed with my
doctor to try Lexapro, and it did help.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">But new stresses piled on due to family issues, such
as caring for my mother who had Alzheimer’s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>By 2013, I was getting suicidal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Fortunately, I was directed to an excellent counselor, once I swallowed
my pride and admitted I needed help.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
has taken me another eight years to realize (admit?) that having a place where
I can let go and truly be myself, where I can say what I really think and feel,
is just as important to my treatment as the meds are.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I’m fortunate to be living in a century when some of
the stigmas attached to mental illness are lessening and there are treatments available
to people like me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every person is
unique, though, so finding the right combination of treatments can be a long
journey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It has been for me.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">As I’ve gone through this, I feel that now is the
time to be open and share where I’ve been, hoping this will help someone else
out there.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">No, the book isn’t published yet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It still needs to simmer a bit longer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I feel the journey is finally reaching
some light ahead--at the end of the tunnel.<o:p></o:p></span></p>mferler.blogspot.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02956833526717342736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-167779132265441586.post-57365332991994706632022-02-15T11:22:00.000-08:002022-02-15T11:22:18.759-08:00Whose Idea Was This, Anyway?<p> <span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 12pt;">So many people keep talking about the evils of
redistribution of wealth, like it was some new idea developed by Karl Marx and
carried on by the Communists.</span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 12pt;">But guess
what, folks, it’s in the Bible!</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Many of us have heard it countless times, the song
of Mary of Nazareth, called <b><i>The Magnificat</i></b>, after the first words
of the song rendered in Latin:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“My soul
magnifies the Lord.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Today these later verses were brought to my
attention: “He (the Lord) has scattered those who are proud in their
thoughts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He has brought down rulers
from their thrones but has lifted up the humble.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He has filled the hungry with good things but
has sent the rich away empty.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Luke
1:51-53)<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Jesus is recorded in Luke 6:20 & 24 as saying: “Blessed
are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God…But woe to you who are
rich, for you have already received your comfort.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Can the comforts of this world measure up to the
spiritual comforts Christ offers?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ask a
multi-millionaire is he is truly happy, and you will find that he always needs
more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>True happiness is something elusive
and always just around the corner in this world.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Once a rich young man came to Jesus and asked what
good deed he must do to inherit eternal life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Jesus answered, “If you want to be perfect, go, sell your possessions
and give to the poor.” (Matthew 19:21).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The next verse (22) says the man went away sad because he had great
wealth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then Jesus told his disciples: “I
tell you, it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a
rich man to enter the kingdom of God.” (Matthew 19:24)<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To me, this
sure sounds like the idea of redistributing wealth is not Communist at
all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s Christian!<o:p></o:p></span></p>mferler.blogspot.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02956833526717342736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-167779132265441586.post-3461966552826436102022-01-06T13:23:00.001-08:002022-01-06T13:23:20.474-08:00What Are You Taking for Granted?<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">In our modern world, we take so many things for
granted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A couple of weeks ago, the pump
on our well stopped working.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All of a
sudden, there was no water when I turned on the faucet.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">A call to the well-driller brought the suggestion to
shut it all down for an hour and then try to restart it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So we did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It worked, but then the same thing happened the next day!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Another attempt was made to reboot it with
the hour-long shut off.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">It happened again on Christmas Day and New Year's Day. Someone is trying to get our attention.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I realize our house is past ten years old, and
nowadays that means things are going to break down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some of our appliances have already had to be
replaced.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not complaining.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s just life.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">But this whole experience has made me realize how
many things we do take for granted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like
the water coming on every time we turn the faucet handle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or the lights coming on whenever I hit the
switch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even my phone and my computer
making it so much easier to do research and to write.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Many of us are old enough to remember the days of
typewriters and rotary-dial phones. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(My
first two books were originally typed on a manual typewriter!) <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I fear our numbers are dwindling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What kind of things will our children and
grandchildren never experience?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kind of
like how we (and often our parents) never experienced travel in a horse-drawn
covered wagon, homes without indoor plumbing or electricity, and travel from
Kalispell to Eureka taking days rather than under two hours. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Right now our well is working again, after the second
reboot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I don’t take that water in
my sink or shower for granted anymore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
realize it could disappear any day now.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I think the timing of this wake-up call event was
good, with Thanksgiving just around the corner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I have a lot more things to be thankful for than I realized, and I hope
to stop taking them for granted.<o:p></o:p></span></p>mferler.blogspot.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02956833526717342736noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-167779132265441586.post-41968883118931093402021-12-31T18:44:00.000-08:002021-12-31T18:44:05.470-08:00A New Excerpt from My Next Novel - to start the New Year<p> </p><p class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 189.0pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: .5in; text-indent: -.25in;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Bookman Old Style"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Bookman Old Style";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span></b><!--[endif]--><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;">The Tables Turn - 2008<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .5in; text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;"><o:p> </o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">The day of Ginna’s seventeenth birthday, she and
Danny were tossing a baseball back and forth in their backyard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lauren had wanted to throw a party for her,
like last year’s, her Sweet Sixteen Birthday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But Ginna said she didn’t want one.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Mom,
it’s too much expense for you.” Where was this new thriftiness coming from?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Besides, I don’t have any friends here that
I want to invite.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Yes,
last year’s party had been awkward, Lauren knew.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By this time, she was hoping Ginna and her
brother would have begun to fit in with their peers at school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Watching
them play, she reflected on how Danny was doing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’d always been more of a loner than his
sister, quiet like his Grandpa John.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In
the deeper recesses of her mind she sometimes wondered if he was keeping the
same kind of secrets his father had about his sexuality.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Almost every day, she prayed this wasn’t
true.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Today
was just another example of how her children took refuge in each other. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For a while after Ginna started high school, they’d
started acting distant and argued a lot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They must have patched things up through the next couple of years
because now they were closer than ever.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So
many things Lauren wished she could change, but all she could do was try her
best.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i>That’s what being a single mom
is</i>, she told herself for the millionth time.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Just
as she turned away from the kitchen window to do some dishes, Danny threw the
ball over Ginna’s head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She scrambled
back to retrieve it, and when she bent over to pick it up, her hand went to her
back, rubbing it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With a start, it came
to Lauren that this gesture was all too familiar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’d done it often whenever she was
pregnant.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i>No,
that can’t be</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i>She’d never get
promiscuous on me.</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In spite of herself,
though, Lauren began noticing other clues over the next few weeks.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>At
last she couldn’t stand it any longer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>One night after Danny had gone to bed, she took her daughter into the
kitchen, where he’d be less likely to hear them. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once they were seated in the straight-backed
chairs at their small wooden table, Lauren stared at Ginna, searching for
words.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .5in;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></b><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;">Trying to keep the anger out of her
voice, she began, “Is there something you need to tell me?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m a mother, and I know what pregnancy looks
and feels like.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There’s no denying that
none of your jeans are fitting now.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hey, who are you to criticize me?”
she retorted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You’ve been sleeping with
your boss for months.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i>That’s a low blow. </i>“So this
gives you permission to sleep around?”<i><o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Lauren was surprised when Ginna shook
her head. “I don’t know.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What don’t you know?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who’s the father of this baby?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her voice grew sharp, as unstoppable waves of
anger and disappointment swept over her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“How many men have you slept with?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ginna stared at the tabletop, tears
filling her eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Mom, in the sense you’re
saying, I’ve never slept with anyone.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What is that supposed to mean, young
lady?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tears began pooling in Lauren’s
eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ginna turned, looking out the yellow-curtained
window above the kitchen sink.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“So, are you telling me someone raped
you?” Lauren whispered.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ginna turned back to face her and
shrugged.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Would it make you feel better
if it was, Mom?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This comment sent a jolt through Lauren’s
gut.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Suddenly, she remembered how Ginna
had tried to warn her against having an affair with Dave, with the text she’d
received in the elevator. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A text she
should have read, but shoved aside. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Guilt and regret bubbled up from deep inside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The tables were turning now.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“But who? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Was
it date rape?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You have no reason to hassle me,”
cried Ginna.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You’re the one who’s been
sleeping with a married man.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Again, her daughter’s words hit like a
physical blow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She knew she was reaping
what she’d sowed.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>By this time Ginna had stalked into
the living room and collapsed on the worn brown couch, burying her sobs in a
yellow pillow.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Cry if it helps,” Lauren whispered, sitting
beside her and smoothing her short, brown hair with her hand. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“We can sort this out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m sorry I got angry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is just so unexpected.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ginna nodded slightly under Lauren’s
hand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“That’s for sure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t explain it, Mom,” she murmured into
the pillow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“It’s complicated.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What’s so complicated?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Either you practice safe sex or you don’t.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I never meant to lose my virginity.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>You must have let yourself be drawn into a situation where it could
happen.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Not really, Mom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like I said, it’s really confusing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You wouldn’t believe me if I told the truth,
anyway.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Try me.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It’s like a bad dream.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe I’ll wake up and it will all dissolve
into nothing.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She gulped a breath.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Danny and I have met some time-travelers
from another dimension.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Wait, this sounds like a great fable.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lauren almost laughed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Can’t you come up with a better excuse?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Mom, I’m not lying.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I knew you wouldn’t believe me if I told the
truth.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well, I have to admit it’s the most
imaginative excuse I’ve ever heard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Whose science fiction book did you get this from?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Forget it then.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ginna pulled the pillow on top of her head,
and sobbed into the couch.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She kept her face toward the back of
the couch and didn’t speak for another moment or two.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When she began, she didn’t raise her head,
but kept it against the cushion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her
words were muffled, so Lauren could barely hear them.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“These time-travelers—"<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Wait, you’re saying some time-traveler
raped you?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i>Is this just an elaborate
scheme to make me feel guilty, after all? <o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Mom, I’m so confused.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t even understand what was happening
to me at first.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was afraid I was
gaining too much weight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know I’m just
a huge disappointment to you now.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>At this, Ginna sat up and pulled her
into a desperate hug.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Except that I’m the one who failed,
not you,” Lauren murmured.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“How could
you have a good example, when I—"<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Don’t say any more, Mom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can tell you still don’t believe me.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Lauren couldn’t deny this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For whatever reason, Ginna wasn’t able to
face the truth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;">Through
the rest of the pregnancy, all Lauren could do was mull these thoughts
over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This tale of Ginna’s was
unbelievable, but she never tried to give any other explanation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lauren decided it must have been date rape,
and Ginna couldn’t handle it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps
someone at school, because as the pregnancy began to show more, Lauren had to
force her to keep up her senior year of high school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She came home in tears almost every day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her emotions were on edge because of the
pregnancy hormones, but Lauren wondered if there was more to it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They both were thankful when the high school
teachers finally agreed to continue her studies at home during September and October,
as her pregnancy entered its last months.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;">***<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Oddly enough, Lauren and her daughter
did draw closer. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She supported Ginna in her
decision to keep the baby, even though it meant taking on the responsibility of
child-rearing all over again. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Still, there were days when she was in
a waking-nightmare.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her first impulse
was to seek comfort with Dave.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even if
nagging guilt began growing, her sheer need for him kept overwhelming her doubts.
<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Of course, he could sense something
was off and asked one night when they’d slipped off to their favorite motel in
Fort Collins, “What’s bothering you?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Have I done something wrong?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They were already lying in the tangled bedsheets.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Not you, just me.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She tried not to echo the testiness in his
voice.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>His dreamy eyes stared into hers, full
of puzzlement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What’s that supposed to
mean?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sounds like an excuse I’ve heard
before.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This wasn’t what she needed to
hear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“So you’ve had other affairs.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hey, they were just fun and games,
Lauren.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m not a fun and games person,” she
snapped.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He took both her hands in his.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You’re a deep person,” he whispered into her
ear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I’ve never known anyone like you.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You probably say that to all your
lovers.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Though she was trying
desperately to brace herself against his charms, she wasn’t succeeding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Your hands are so warm,” she sighed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I sure could use you in my drafty old
house.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Is that the problem?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You want more of me?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah, that’s part of it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t feel right being just your mistress.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He blinked but didn’t give a quick
reply, so she went on, “The bigger problem is my daughter has gotten herself
pregnant.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What’s that got to do with us?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She cringed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His response was too quick and sharp.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Again, she needed to take some deep breaths
before she spoke.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I tried to raise her
with morals, Dave.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now that she sees
what I’m doing with you, well—I’ve totally blown my credibility.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Credibility?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hey, this isn’t the Nineteenth Century, you
know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Values have changed.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I know, but she’s my only daughter.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Take it easy,” he murmured, pulling her
closer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I know you love me, and you
know I love you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s enough for us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just put it aside and enjoy what we
have.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Your daughter’s problems are her
own.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’re not responsible for every
decision she makes.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Despite herself, she leaned into his
embrace and nodded against his chest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I
want to believe that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Still, there’s
something inside me like a judge saying ‘Guilty!’”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He made no reply, but turned her face
up toward his and kissed her lips, then nuzzled just below her jaw line.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He already knew this was one of her erotic
zones.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was no way to resist him. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her body was responding in spite of her
doubts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Later, as they both lay on the hotel’s
bed, she could hear his deep, even breathing in sleep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All she could do was stare at the ceiling and
blink back tears.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why was she so weak?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
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<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>mferler.blogspot.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02956833526717342736noreply@blogger.com0