Category Archives: Uncategorized

Change is on the Horizon

Posted on by

The Roman Missal, which contains the prayers used in the celebration of our Catholic Mass, is being revised (again!), with the new translations taking effect in the U.S. on Nov. 27, the First Sunday of Advent.

Now I imagine plenty of folks are already grumbling about having to learn new responses. We gave it a test run this weekend at church, and I heard lots of people trying to wing it with the “old” responses (this, despite having a handy cheat card in every pew!).

The text we’ve been using has been in effect since the 1970s and frankly, many of us have become somewhat complacent with the current verbiage. Because it’s so familiar to us, we recite it automatically with little thought to what we’re saying.

I can’t imagine God wants us to approach our sacred Liturgy that way!

So the Church in her wisdom has some new words for us, words that more closely follow the original Latin, words that parallel the other major language groups who never got away from the Latin.

The first major change will be the people’s response to the priest’s greeting, “The Lord be with you.”

What we have been saying is, “And also with you.” This will be changing to “And with your spirit.”

See, it’s not a big change, but it’s one we laity will find tough at first (due, perhaps, to how often the greeting is exchanged). But it’s designed to follow Sacred Scripture as well as to acknowledge the work of the Holy Spirit in the Church.

Most of the other major parts of the Mass, including the Penitential Act, Gloria, Creed, Mystery of Faith, and even Sanctus are undergoing change. Not big changes, mind you, but different wording here and there.

And it’s not just the people’s part that will change; priests, too, will have new words to learn. So we’ll probably see our priests, who now say Mass by heart, scrambling to read the changes until they, too, learn them!

Change is something most of us dread. It yanks us out of our comfort zone and puts us on shaky ground.

But all change isn’t bad. As one who studied four years of Latin, I’m eager for these changes. I hope the unfamiliar words will force us to wake up, pay attention, and appreciate the beauty of our Liturgy, and then to grow more fully in our faith.

SD Cards Don’t Need Baths

Posted on by

We all tend to think of “tech-y” people as infallible when it comes to gizmos, but even though I’m in a tech business, I’ve made my share of gaffes.

Take the other day, for example.

My blogging friend Katybeth asked me if I had any interesting photos of fall foliage that I could send her. Her trees don’t turn color as early as ours do because she’s farther north, yet she wanted to include an autumn-like picture on her blog.

It was gorgeous outside, so I decided to take a quick stroll around the neighborhood and see what I could find — and yes, you can interpret that to mean I was procrastinating! It was Sunday, after all, and who can work when fall beckons?

So I picked up my camera and off I went; however, as soon as I turned my trusty digital on, I realized something was amiss. The following message popped up:

‘Pictures will be recorded to built-in memory.’

Hmm, obviously I didn’t have my SD card installed. I checked and sure enough, the slot was empty.

Okay, where’s the card?

I tried the usual places before recalling that I’d taken it to Wal-Mart recently to print off some pictures for my son’s memory book. That meant the SD card was still in my jeans pocket for I know that’s where I put it when I finished at the kiosk.

But wait — didn’t I wash those jeans?

Racing upstairs, I dug in the pocket of the first pair my hands could reach. There was the SD card. It looked okay and didn’t feel wet. But still. . . .

With a hope and a prayer, I slipped it into my computer.

Miracle of miracles, all of my photos and videos were intact. Displayable. Just as I’d left them.

Wow!

I can’t figure out how they managed to remain unscathed. I mean, those jeans were washed, line dried, and ironed, for Pete’s sake.

But I’m not complaining. That SD card contained images from a segment of time I can’t capture again.

Pictures are memories, and memories are priceless.

So learn from my mistake and don’t wash your storage media!

Have you ever done anything this stupid? How did it turn out?

Letters Go the Way of Steam Locomotives

Posted on by

I read this morning that the average American home last year received a personal letter about every seven weeks.

That compares to 1987, when personal letters (not counting greeting cards or invitations) arrived once every two weeks.

As a writer, I think that’s sad.

The annual survey done by the postal service points to the proliferation of electronic communication — Facebook, e-mails, Twitter, etc. — as the reason for the drop in letter-writing. Catalogs, requests-for-monetary-contributions, and advertisements aren’t figured in with this statistic.

Admittedly, I’m as guilty as the next person for sending my share of e-mail. I write My Favorite Domer almost every day, whether it’s just a quick reminder or something funny I forgot to tell him on the phone or an “I love you” or a “Good Luck on your test.”

But it’s different with my childhood best friend. She moved away when we were in junior high, and we’ve corresponded by letter ever since. What once were pages upon pages of handwriting on pretty stationery now are typically plain white papers keyed in on computer and printed out for mailing. Sure, we could call and chat or e-mail, but we don’t. We prefer to write real letters. I love seeing her familiar handwriting on an envelope in the mail, grabbing a cup of tea, and curling up to read.

A letter, I think, is so much more personal than, say Facebook. With a letter, I can be me, whereas online, I find myself more guarded in what I say and how I say it.

Another sad aspect of the decline in personal letter-writing is the shortage of “love letters.” Do you remember being separated from your beloved — even for a short time like Christmas or summer vacation — and hand writing long, intimate letters? I do. My parents’ generation did, too, during the war years, and many a home has a stack of love letters tied with pretty ribbon and stashed in the attic.

I suspect the postal service would love for personal letters to make a comeback and ease their financial woes. I’m afraid I don’t see that happening any time soon. Few of us want to give up the immediacy of electronic communication.

What about you? Do you still send or receive personal letters?

School Leaf Collection Projects

Posted on by

When did teachers stop requiring students to make leaf collections in science class?

I remember making one in junior high; so did my sister. But none of our kids did.

Could it be that today’s teachers think all kids have to do is Google stuff if they’re interested in leaves and trees?

When I was that age, we didn’t have Google, and teachers recognized the connection between physically doing something and learning.

So we had to scour the countryside for actual leaves and fruit; take detailed notes on the shape of the tree, the appearance of its bark, and its location; preserve the leaves between pieces of wax paper inserted into big thick books; and organize the whole thing into some sort of folder.

For a grade.

We quickly learned:

  • where in town the interesting trees could be found
  • to be careful with those leaves, gathering intact specimens rather than bug-bitten ones
  • and to work quickly, before frost fell

I can still hear my dad cautioning me, “Don’t wait ’til the last minute, Deb. Some trees lose their leaves in winter.”

A certain protocol came about with school leaf collection projects and for a shy kid like me, it was uncomfortable.

You had to find the tree, then knock on the owner’s door and ask if you could have a leaf for your collection.

Not borrow it — you weren’t bringing it back!

Most folks didn’t seem to mind. Some told me to help myself to the lot of ’em. They were going to fall off anyway, and this would mean one less for them to rake up and burn.

It was a happy day when no one answered the knock on the door. Only then could I grab the prize leaf and RUN!

Thanks to my forward-thinking, yet practical, teachers, I did learn about leaves and trees. To this day, I can identify many trees by their shape, bark, and leaves.

My Favorite Domer finds this fascinating though a bit odd. He never had to make a leaf collection so one tree looks pretty much like another to him.

Sad.

So who else out there has memories of leaf collections in school?

Remembering Sept. 11, 2001

Posted on by

I’d just started my new Web Design business three months previously and was actively seeking new clients and new projects.

Earlier in the week I’d been contacted by one of the officers of our local shopping mall association. They had a Website but it wasn’t doing everything they wanted it to, nor did it look as inviting as they knew shoppers expected.

Would I come by the morning of Sept. 11, 2001, and do a presentation for them? Nothing too fancy, nothing too formal. Just kind of let them know how I could transform their online presence, as well as a general idea how much that would cost.

Sure. Of course. I was elated! Something this big had the potential of changing my life.

Gathering my presentation materials — informational fliers, business cards, etc. — that morning, I fought back a case of nerves as I pulled into the mall parking lot.

I’ve met most of these people before, I told myself. I can do this. It won’t cost them a fortune. I need the business, and doing such a potentially-extensive site will look good on my portfolio.

I had my car radio on but wasn’t really listening to it. I was previewing in my mind’s eye my presentation — visualizing success, I believe they call it.

Suddenly the announcer screamed something like, “Oh, my God, NO!” and started talking about a plane flying into a tower in New York City.

The news-hound in me wanted to learn more. I wanted to be in front of the TV like I was during Space Shuttle Challenger’s ill-fated explosion shortly after takeoff in 1986.

It was incomprehensible to me that, in the midst of all that destruction and loss of life, my life was going on.

Now my nerves became super-charged as I walked into the mall. Everyone was talking about the disaster, speculating on the whys and whos. After introductions, I began my presentation, sensing that no one was really listening, no one was really caring.

I could hardly wait to wrap things up, to get back home where I could glue myself to the TV.

And I did. Just like hundreds of thousands of people worldwide.

My Flag will be flying tomorrow, and my thoughts and prayers will be offered up for my innocent fellow Americans who lost their lives, their family members, their jobs.

By the way, I wasn’t selected for the mall project, but my life did change — other projects have come along, other BIG news has taken place. I’ve come to a deeper faith, to an inner conviction that, regardless of what terrors this world throws at us, the final outcome is cause for joy. God wins!

Weighing in on “The Help”

Posted on by

Against my better judgment, I accompanied my mom to see “The Help” at the theater the other day.

Mom’s a native Mississippian, and I just knew she’d sit there grumbling for the entire two-hour showing — “They didn’t get that right.” “It wasn’t like that at all.” “Everybody wants to make Mississippi out to be worse than it was.”

And so on.

Truth be told, I had some doubts of my own. Let’s face it, the girl who wrote this book isn’t old enough to recall 1960s Mississippi (not that mom could help her — by that time, she and Daddy were living way north of the Mason-Dixon line!)

But everything I’d read and heard said ‘Go, anyway,’ so we went.

And I was pleasantly surprised.

Author Kathryn Stockett grew up in Jackson, MS; her single mother and her African-American housekeeper raised her. Before signing on with Putnam, she endured some 60 rejection letters for this, her first novel.

In fact, before the book was even published, her lifelong friend Tate Taylor (also a Jackson native, also raised by a single mother and an African-American housekeeper) bought the film rights for “The Help.” Taylor, an Ole Miss grad, wrote the script and directed the film that opened to rave reviews earlier this month.

“The Help” is poignant on so many levels. It describes the multi-layered relationship black maids had with their white female employers in the early 1960s in the south; it speaks to the rules then in place for interactions between blacks and whites; it portrays societal mores of the time.

Some of it isn’t pleasant — some of the white women were horrid to their ‘help.’ Some were horrid to each other, too.

But much of it seems realistic — the fear of speaking out, the fear of crossing societal lines, the not knowing how friendly to be without actually being ‘friends.’

It’s funny; it’s sad; it’s a slice of life too long neglected, this tale of friendship and struggle and hope.

Stockett has said she wrote the book while she was away in New York, dearly missing the housekeeper she’d grown up with and wishing she’d had the chance to get inside her head and ask her what it was like to be her.

Tate, too, speaks lovingly of the maid who helped raise him. He says racism and bigotry form merely the backdrop of “The Help.” The real story, he insists, is about courage and integrity and the necessity for change.

Stockett said Mississippi, to her sons and daughters, is like a mother; one can complain all one wants about her, but don’t let anybody else say a bad word about her!

Maybe that’s what sold mom; I know it sold me. Stockett did her research, and it shows.

If you haven’t yet seen the movie or read the book, do so. For those who have, I’m interested in hearing your thoughts!

Mmm, a Sweet Award

Posted on by

My friend Kathy over at Memoir Writer’s Journey has passed on to me the Irresistibly Sweet Blogger’s Award!

Here’s what it looks like:

Irresistibly Sweet Blog Award

A writer and retired family nurse practitioner, Kathy is penning a Christian-themed memoir. Her blog offers writing and publishing tips and links she’s run across in her journey. Hop on over and check her out.

As with any award, there are a few “rules and regulations” one must follow to accept the accolades. These include:

  1. Thank and link back to the person who gave you the award;
  2. List 7 random, little-known facts about yourself; and
  3. Present the award to at least 1 other sweet blogger.

Okay, I’ve checked and re-checked, and these “rules” keep changing, kind of like that game where one person whispers a secret to the person seated next to them, they tell the person on their other side, and so on until you get to the last person, who usually has a hilariously garbled version of the original secret.

Some of the “rules” say you have to pass the award to 7 other bloggers, some say 12 or 15.  Some specify you must notify the recipients you’ve pegged; others don’t mention anything about that. Consequently, I’m picking the rules I want to follow — what can I say, I’m used to being the boss!

I like the first rule. Gratitude is good. So, Thank You, Kathy, for passing the honor to me. You’re sweet to do so, and I’m going to treasure it!

I’m okay with the second rule (she said, taking a huge gulp of courage!). Some random facts about me that you might not know:

  1. I actually like to iron.
  2. I’ve been able to read upside down for a long time — comes in handy when you’re interviewing city officials, judges, etc.
  3. My first pet was a Weenie-dog.
  4. I don’t eat strawberries (can’t stand the way they feel in my mouth).
  5. My eyes were blue until I was two years old.
  6. Music helps me focus and work better.
  7. I’m a lifetime member of my college sorority.

Now, here are the bloggers (in no particular order) I’m passing this award on to next (and forgive me if you’ve already been tagged!):

Nine Tips for Incoming College Freshmen

Posted on by

I just got back from dropping My Favorite Domer (AKA College Guy) on campus for his third (Junior) year.

Seeing the confusion on the faces of parents of incoming freshmen — and the fake bravado on their youngsters’ faces — I feel obliged to share some tips gleaned from this move-in experience, as well as hints for surviving that first year. Today I’m speaking directly to incoming freshmen (to keep it fair, I’ll be back Tuesday with advice for their parents!)

  1. You don’t need to bring everything you own. Yes, your Homecoming tiara is special to you. So’s the game ball from some high school sports competition. So’s your pet cat. Face it, chances are the university you’ve chosen won’t allow Fluffy in your dorm room. And suddenly you’re going to find yourself surrounded by kids just like you, kids who have also won awards and excelled. Unless you want to get into a bragging contest with them (trust me, you don’t), leave that stuff where it belongs, in the past, at home.
  2. Too many cooks spoil the broth. Your mom or your dad can help with your move-in. You don’t need both; nor do you need younger siblings or grandparents. Leaving home for the first time is likely to be enough of an emotional upheaval, without involving hangers-on who won’t be of much help anyway. Most schools have wheeled carts to help, as well as upperclassmen, and you don’t want everybody’s first impression of you to be that of a red-faced kid squabbling with his/her family.
  3. Be appreciative. Your parents are probably sacrificing their cushy retirement (well, hopefully not all of it!) to send you to college. Say “Thank you” once or twice. Maybe more. You are grateful, aren’t you?
  4. Expect to be embarrassed. You’re used to Dad’s comfy sweats and the way Mom shuffles her reading glasses on and off all day. Your peers, however, aren’t, and you might catch them making faces or snickering behind the adults’ backs. You might want to snicker, too. Don’t. You’ve known your parents longer than you’ve known any of these kids, and your loyalty should be to your family. And don’t laugh at their families, either — you might be working for them some day.
  5. Recall that “Sharing is caring and it can be fun.” You’ve probably already “met” your roommate through Facebook or a phone conversation. Try to get along, okay? Maybe you didn’t have to share tight quarters before, but you will now. He might snore or keep odd hours; she might listen to music 24/7, singing off-key to genres you dislike. You probably have equally annoying habits. Sit down like the young adults you are and draw up a set of mutually acceptable guidelines. And be grown up enough to revisit them if you find they’re not working.
  6. Watch your diet. They don’t call those extra pounds the “Freshman Fifteen” for nothing. When Mom’s not around to prepare healthy meals for you, it’s easy to slip into bad habits. Try to eat balanced meals and get some exercise every day (and no, pushing buttons on your video console doesn’t qualify as exercise!)
  7. Expect to be homesick. Even if you’ve been away from home before, you’ll find yourself missing it. Your old friends, your old haunts, your family, your routine. Trust me, it hits all of us, some harder than others and at different times. Don’t try to tough it out alone. That’s what counseling offices are for. Call home more often, at least until you’ve acclimated and made friends.
  8. Classes will be harder than you imagine. Maybe you made straight A’s in high school, but university is a whole new ball game. Expect to put in 2-3 hours outside class for every hour you spend in class. You’ll have papers and projects, presentations and exams. Keep up with the work on a daily basis. Seek help if you need it. Don’t stretch yourself too thin by joining every club imaginable. Start off on the right foot, making a favorable impression with your peers and professors. Oh, and catch some of those profs outside class — they can help you immensely.
  9. Be prudent. Be safe. Just because everybody is drinking doesn’t mean you have to. Don’t hook up with strangers. Stay away from the shady side of town. Don’t spend all your time partying. Remember, to somebody you’re the world, and their world would come crashing down should something horrid happen to you!

Choices…Choices

Posted on by

It’s a sobering thought when you realize how close you came to possible death from someone’s carelessness. Let me explain.

This morning I was driving My Favorite Domer (AKA college guy) around town on a few errands — some for him, some for me. Now, at age 20, he’s perfectly capable of driving himself, but since we both had errands to run, it just seemed the sensible (and frugal!) thing to go together.

And it was my car.

I was traveling east along a mostly residential, tree-lined street when suddenly, from the corner of my eye, I saw a white bus lunge forward from a Stop sign on my left.

This was one of those “senior citizen” buses the county operates, something they use to pick up the elderly and disabled and take them to doctor’s appointments, the grocery store, Wal-Mart, and other places.

Since there was nothing immediately behind me, I stopped my car and SAT on the horn, waiting to get the other driver’s attention.

Eventually, she must have noticed because she, too, stopped — after crossing the westbound lane and nearly touching the center line of the road I was on.

You’d have thought she’d been all apologetic. After all, it was her mistake.

But no.

She started screaming at me, flailing her arms in an angry manner, and making all sorts of ugly faces.

At me.

Okay, you didn’t expect me to take it without a fight, did you?

I screamed a few choice words back at her — nothing my son hadn’t heard before! — then promptly got out of her way.

The more I thought about it, the angrier I became.

So after I got home, I picked up the phone and called the agency responsible for those buses and drivers.

A dispatcher, hearing that I had a complaint, transferred me to the director, and I gave her a blow-by-blow account of what happened. I assured her I didn’t want to be responsible for someone losing her job in this lousy economy; neither did I want to see a bunch of old or disabled folks killed from the carelessness of one of their bus operators.

You did the right thing, the director told me. We can’t correct a problem if we don’t know about it. We’ll take it from here.

I hope so. I really hope so.

Tell me, what would you have done?

Weighing the Options when it Comes to Care for the Elderly

Posted on by

Earlier this year, one of my dear elderly neighbors slipped in her garage, broke a hip, and landed in a rehab facility. She’s been there for the maximum three months; now it’s decision time for her kids.

Should they:

  • Bring her home and hope she can handle life all by herself, or
  • Transfer her to a nursing home permanently

It’s not an easy choice. On the one hand, she’s frail, never really exercised, and lives alone. On the other, she owns a one-story home, is financially comfortable, still possesses her wits, still drives, and has caring neighbors to check on her. And her kids live nearby.

How old is “too old” to look after oneself? Eighty? Ninety? I’ve known people at twenty-one who were unable to tend to themselves, either because of mental or physical disabilities or because of sheer laziness. I’ve also known people at forty who were unable (or unwilling) to look after themselves. So it doesn’t appear to come down to age.

Still, all of us eventually (if we live long enough!) are going to face this dilemma, whether for our parents or for ourselves. I wonder how many have made provisions? How many have even made their wishes known to their loved ones?

My neighbor’s kids have been fixing up their mother’s home, roofing and painting and all that. They’ve done it on the sly, coaxing the neighbors not to tell their mother because they wanted to surprise her.

I’d like to believe they did it out of the kindness of their hearts (with maybe a tiny bit of weariness over hearing their mom complain the house was “as old as she was.”) I’d like to think she’d ooh and aah when she’d walk in, marveling over the makeover and eagerly anticipating the rest of her life in a like-new dwelling.

But something tells me she won’t get to see the improvements.

You see, one of the kids confided to another neighbor that they intend to sell the house and move their mom to a nursing home.

She forgets things, they said. She might fall again, the house is too big for one woman, she needs to be around other people.

Huh?

This is a woman who likes her privacy, who never really was a social butterfly, who was comfortable in her surroundings. She could afford to hire a caretaker — full or part time, live-in or not — to help out, to ensure her dignity remains intact, and to permit her to stay in her own home.

I wonder if her kids even asked her wishes or if they simply decided what was best for her (and easiest for them). Knowing my neighbor, she’d agree to anything that wouldn’t inconvenience her loved ones. She’s that selfless.

But most studies nowadays confirm that people tend to do better and live longer in their own home. Shouldn’t she be given that chance, rather than shipped off to a group facility where she’s surrounded by people lying in beds or sitting in wheelchairs, staring out windows and waiting to die?