Home too long, Thanks Covid!

 It is nine AM. I sit at my computer, thinking about what I  should write. In the background, I can hear an advertisement for a charity called Tunnels to Towers.  This commercial is followed by the news. I listen to reporters as they report on the politics of the day. 
I am saddened by the condition of the world today. I realize that I am old, and I am rapidly heading to my final days. But before I go, I pray that I will see the world and its people return to values such as respect for each other, kindness for those who are less fortunate, generosity towards others, and respect for different cultures, customs, and races. I dream of a world where we see the beauty in others regardless of their skin color.  

On the sill outside my window, I spot I see a blue-tailed lizard resting. As I look out again, I can see a red cardinal enjoying sunflower seeds at the birdfeeder. A green hummingbird flies from feeder to flower lapping up nectar. Purple finches watch from the trees. I am witness to the beauty in the diversity in nature. I can not help to wonder why people have difficulty seeing this same beauty in the diversity of the human race.
I stop writing long enough to listen to a friend being interviewed on a podcast. My friend is talking about the epidemic of loneliness in the world today. He contends that our technology and now the COVID virus has contributed to this epidemic. I can not disagree with him, and as I Sit alone in my office, I feel pervasive loneliness invading my space. I turn back to my computer.  By this time, I am feeling completely frustrated with the words that I have written. I press on. I was determined that I would write a well-crafted post. 
My original thought was that I would write about Tunnels to Towers and how the organization helps first responders with disabilities received in the line of duty. The organization supplies adaptive equipment and even smart homes for some if needed. The help provided makes the delicate adjustment of to a life of disability easier. I understand these difficulties well because of my own personal struggles with disabilities over the past eleven years. I find that today I can not write about this. The subject hits close to home. So I move on.
My next idea for a post was About the time Tom, my husband, was sent out to pick up beverages for break time at work. Again this feels like another story for another day.  Now it is almost 5 PM. I have typed on this computer all day and have not written anything that makes sense. I suppose that is because the world doesn't make sense to me right now. 
I see a card on my desk. It reads, "Ask, and it shall be given to you. Seek, and ye shall find, Knock and it shall be opened unto you."(Matthew 7:7 On the back, the card read, "Just for you"  It is time to cook dinner, but before I do I pause and pray. Thanks, card for the reminder. No matter how bad things might appear God is in control. 

Living Sohern Sweet tea hummingbirds and ummer sun

As I sat eating my breakfast on the deck early in the morning, I could feel the warmth of the sun on my shoulders. I knew by the increasing heat on my skin that it was going to be a scorcher of a summer day.  Because I am partially blind, I couldn't see them but I could hear the hum of hummingbird wings as they flew past my head.  The hummingbirds were at work slurping up their breakfast of sweet nectar from the flowers and the mix of sugar water that I kept in their feeders.  

Hummers are fascinating creatures. I read in a paper by Stephanie Bitner, a biologist at Arizona State University School of Life sciences, that hummingbirds lick nectar up from a flower, like a dog lapping at a bowl of water. Bitner goes on to state that a hummingbird's tongue can lick sixteen times per second, and they will consume one half of their body weight in sugar each day and that they eat an average once every ten minutes."Hummingbirds Foraging May 2014." Hummingbirds love the sweet sugar found in nectar and sugar water. Did you ever suck the nectar out of a honeysuckle flower? As a child, I found its sweetness delicious.

Sugar water and nectar bring to mind sweet tea in the South. My North Carolina neighbors have a unique blend of iced tea that they call sweet tea. This is not just iced tea with sugar in it like I drank growing up in New Jersey. Sweet tea is much more than that. Sweet tea is a heavenly drink that will rival the nectar from the most generous of flowers.

 But before I tell you about sweet tea, let's talk about tea itself for a moment. Although initially served hot, 85 percent of all tea consumed in the United States today is enjoyed cold. Whether you like your drink with a splash of liquor, poured into punches, or served simply on the rocks, you're taking part in a 200-year-old tradition. Hot tea has been served in America since Colonial times. But our tea-drinking habits really started to shift around the turn of the 20th century. At the 1904 World's Fair in St. Louis, the hot summer weather caused fairgoers to skip hot beverages in favor of cold ones — including iced tea. The fair's 20 million visitors cooled themselves with iced tea and brought the new style of tea back to their homes throughout the United States and the world. 

 Later, when home refrigerators with freezers started to appear in homes during the 1920s and '30s, people didn't even have to leave the house to grab a couple of ice cubes year-round. This development made iced tea convenient, and drinking iced tea was less expensive than other options that were available at the time. (adapted from Taken from "The History of iced tea April 30,2018")

North Carolina, sweet tea is made by adding a five-pound bag of sugar to one cup of boiling water. This mixture is then added to a pitcher of freshly brewed tea. You finish it off by throwing in a ten-pound bag of ice, Do this, and you have an ice-cold sweet drink that is a refreshing treat on a blazing hot Carolina summer day. Add to your enjoyment and pull a chair or a rocker under a shady oak tree. Grab a good book and a really big glass of that sweet tea. Relax and forget your troubles for a time. 

One warning l feel I should add.  If you are planning to wear a bikini, tankini, one-piece, or two-piece bathing suit to the beach, although tempting in the summer heat, don't be a hummingbird and drink one half your body weight in sweet tea and do not eat every ten minutes. True story. This is the sweet secret of sweet tea in North Carolina and perhaps beyond. 

During this season of COVID 19, election politics and shutdowns, Summer sun, hummingbirds, and sweet tea reminds me of this one thing. 

I know that God is in control and God has got us! So sit back and relax.

Matthew 6:27 Can anyone of you by worrying add a single hour to your life?

About Coleslaw.

When I moved to North Carolina in 1989, I quickly discovered that I had a lot to learn about living in the south. Take coleslaw, for example. Originally created by the dutch. The term "coleslaw" arose in the 18th century as an anglicization of the Dutch name "koolsla" ("kool" in Dutch sounds like "cole"), meaning "cabbage salad." The "cole" part of the word comes from the Latin colis, meaning "cabbage."

In the article, "The Origins of Coleslaw: Going Dutch"

Deb Perelman writes

"The Dutch, who founded the state of New York, grew cabbage around the Hudson River. Although the combination of shredded cabbage and other common coleslaw ingredients can be traced back to Roman times, it wasn't until the mid 18th century that mayonnaise was invented, so coleslaw as we know it is about 250 years old." Kitchen Window (2007 NPR)

New Jersey, where I was raised, has two kinds of coleslaw. Chopped or shredded.  When I moved to North Carolina, my knowledge of this savory dish was significantly expanded.

 In the south," Slaaaw is all you need to say. Coleslaw is so prevalent in North Carolina, the cole part is not required. When you ask for slaaaw, everyone will immediately know you are asking for this delightful southern staple. Slaw in the south is as essential as sweet in your tea. I will say more about that in another post. 

The south has 6,500 variations of slaw. The southern slaw can be red slaw, white slaw, chopped, shredded, and vinegar slaw. It would not surprise me to discover that the south has even created a red, white, and blue slaw. 

King of slaw in North Carolina is the always popular slaw that is made to be placed on the top of a barbecue sandwich.  Barbecue slaw is made from someone's granny's special recipe with secret ingredients. This recipe can only be shared with New Jersey natives if they are willing to take a blood oath. The oath must be taken while Pinky swearing and turning to the right three times on one foot. 

  New Jersey cooks make one slaw. The simple Jersey recipe includes cabbage, carrots, a small amount of onion, mayo, and celery seed.  

My first introduction to slaw in North Carolina occurred when I was invited to eat lunch with Dr. Artley from Elon University at Kimber's restaurant in Gibsonville. Kimbers was Dr. Artley's favorite restaurant. I know this because he ate lunch there every day for many years. 

That fateful day in Kimber's restaurant I ordered a sandwich. To my surprise, the waitress asked me, "do you want slaw on it?" Wait, what! In New Jersey, coleslaw is put in a small souffle cup next to your sandwich along with a pickle to keep it company. I had never thought of putting slaw on a sandwich. I replied, a very tentative, yes to the waitress. Minutes later, my lunch arrived in its slaw topped glory. After that first bite, I thought, "The next time, I will go all out and try slaw on my burger. I would like a dill pickle, please.

Face masks and angels

I was at the podiatrist's office, and like everyone else, I was wearing a facemask. Nothing felt normal. It was depressing to see so many people in masks today.   The ride to the doctor's office seemed unreal. Yes, there were cars on the road, but parking lots that should have been full of vehicles were empty. I was struggling to understand the reality of the world today. Nothing seemed right.

Monday will be my sixty-seventh birthday. It was on my birthday seventeen years ago that I received a phone call from my brother who told me my mother was on a ventilator.  Since then, I always struggle with feelings of sadness on my birthday. I guess that is because my birthday is a yearly reminder of my mother's death. Unfortunately, she had chosen me to be her child that could say for her, "turn off the machines."

As I said, turn them off, that the room filled with stillness. With those words, I had fulfilled the promise made to my mother. 

Now seventeen years later, I still vividly remember that morning in the hospital room filled with machines that should not have been there.

I try to think about my fifth birthday when my mother hired a man with a pure white pony to give my friends and I pony rides on a sweltering summer day in August. I try to remember the other children and their mothers at my party. I wish I could remember the sound of the laughter or the taste of the sweet birthday cake.  Instead, on my birthday, I remember my voice as I told the doctors to turn off the machines that had to breathe for my mother.

I am sad today because people are wearing face masks to visit the foot doctor. There has been looting and rioting in the streets of Chicago, a city that I visited several times years ago on church trips.  Those trips to Chicago were filled with good friends and happy times. Now those memories are soiled by the current destruction in that city. Black lives matter, Your life matters, my mother's life mattered all lives matter.  There is no longer Jew or Gentile, slave or free, male and female. For you are all one in Christ Jesus. (Galatians 3:28) 

The world feels out of order and it feels like it is spinning so rapidly that I can't hold on tight enough. I feel like I am losing my place in this world. 

As I am writing this, I look out my window into the darkness, and I see my angel that glows in the dark.  My husband has placed it on the deck railing where it can be seen because he knows that on a night like tonight, I need to be reminded that there is something good in the world. Just as the angels came to tell the shepherds that Jesus was born. My little glow in the dark rechargeable sun charged angel reminds me that I have a savior who knows me and  He will heal my broken heart.

Never , Never Give Up Persistance Pays Off

I will be candid with you. Life as a disabled person is hard on a good day. On a bad day, life feels way past impossible. There have been days that I have almost fallen off of my toilet. Some of you may not think this is not such a big deal, but let me remind you that my commode is what they call a comfort model. This means it is about three inches higher than a standard toilet. Three inches doesn't seem like much, but when you are heading towards the floor at a speed that rivals the velocity of a pole vaulter who has just cleared the eighteen-foot height and is headed back to earth, those three inches matter.

 In the past eleven years, I have fallen three times. The first time I fell, I broke my nose. I fell from my side steps onto a brick patio. I had just learned to navigate the steps using my cane. I needed more practice because I missed the step, and down I landed right on my nose. The second time I fell, I added laundry into the washer and fell when I leaned over to pick items out of the hamper. With that fall, I broke my arm in three places. In my third fall, I landed butt first in a mud puddle in front of a church full of people. Fortunately, with that fall, only my pride was injured. As I was falling each time, I remembered my son's advice.

He said."mom, when you think you are going to fall, just tuck and roll." Well, I tried that, but I discovered that it is just not as easy as it seems to "tuck and roll." Every time I fell, I wondered what part of "tuck and roll" I had gotten wrong, the tuck or the roll? It has been tough to get up and overcome my fears after those falls.  It has taken a lot of hard work to rebuild my confidence, get back on my feet, and start again.  Each time I did, It felt great!  I could even complete one and a half miles of a JDRF fundraiser. I finished the route, but it was long after the rest of the participants had gone home.  I imagined they were at home and eating dinner when I finally finished. But the point is that even though things get complicated, we can still persevere. Because of perseverance and help from some friends, I completed the fundraiser, and a donation was made to the JDRF organization. Who knows how many good things that gift is doing.

I have ridden horses and ridden a motorcycle with my husband. I  led a pretty full life, despite my disabilities.

As I have gotten older, it has become more challenging to walk with my cane, and I will often use my wheelchair instead.  But then again, who wants another broken nose? The point is just because things get complicated, we should still persevere. 

You might have to fall off a step or even fall off of a comfort height toilet a few times. In the end, the reward earned by persistence will be worth the bumps and bruises. Winston Churchhill said to his British troops during the war, "Never, never, never give up." Perseverance has its rewards. It could pay to keep trying.

Summer mornings in June

My husband and I stood side-by-side on our deck enjoying the peacefulness of a summer morning. After a  few quiet minutes, I remarked to my husband, "it is peaceful listening to the birds.” 

Our yard is surrounded by many trees and because of that, we have a large amount of wildlife that visits our yard regularly. We have seen wild turkeys, deer, woodchucks, hawks, foxes, and coyote. and an assortment of songbirds birds. Oh, and don’t forget the many squirrels that come to eat the birdseed that I leave out for the birds. (grrr) On this morning the songbirds were singing their choruses in a multitude of joyous voices.

My husband responded saying, “ it is nice to have some peace amid all the chaos that's going on in the world right now.”  His comment caused me to stop and think. He was right!

There is an extraordinary amount of chaos in the world today. There are political arguments that have been erupting on the different news media.  The COVID pandemic has stirred heated discussions, over questions about the possible transmission of the virus. We debate with our friends, coworkers, and others. Should I wear a mask, or is it ok not to wear a mask? How far away is enough social distance? Should the governor open the state or not?  In addition, there are questions of racism, should statues that have stood for a century be removed or even destroyed? To many the are symbols of racism but to others, the statues represent timeless works of art to others, and yes too many the statues are symbols of a terrible time in history.

Will Uncle Ben, aunt Jamima, and Gone with the wind, blown away and forgotten? Will they be archived in a dusty vault never to be seen again?

last night I read about a realtor in another state that is choosing to no longer use the term “master bedroom” This is because the word is related to the slave industry.   As a realtor for many years, I wonder then what will the room where the adults of the home sleep? 

Life feels troublesome, confusing, and downright heartbreaking to many people, We are all struggling with these same issues. Are marchers in the streets peaceful protests, or rioters?  Who matters more? Do Black Lives Matter, Blue Lives Matter, All lives matter.are not we all created equal in the eyes of God? What if we were to follow God's teachings as the rule of law? I believe Many things could change.

Each question is a new fence that is being erected between people. Friends become enemies as we are being asked to declare what side of the fence we will live on.

With all of this happening it is understandable that anxiety and stress in people are increasing. depression is up and suicide rates are rising spousal abuse is on the rise.  People are becoming more argumentative, judgemental, opinionated, and angry towards each other.

As I sat lingering this morning with my now very cold cup of coffee unfinished in my hand. I asked myself, what are the lessons was I taught? How can I use my faith as I look for answers?

Lesson one,

Do not be a clanging cymbal! Always speak the truth with love.

 Is that the clanging of cymbals that I hear? if I speak in the tongues of men and of angels but have not love, I am only a ringing gong or a clanging cymbal. 1 Corinthians 13:1 NIV

The controversies are causing us, yes even Jesus loving God-loving Christians to lose ourselves amid the clatter and noise.  We are drowning in the loud voices all claiming that they are speaking the truth. I am not claiming I have the answers.  I might find out that I am wrong about everything except this one thing. God will guide me with his word, his son Jesus and if I am willing to listen to His Holy Spirit.

Lesson two,

God is the source of our peace.

The world did not give me the peace of this morning. Only God in his wondrous creation could orchestrate the combination of sound, sunlight, and a summer morning breeze that would calm a heart that was anxious and concerned with the state of the world in which we. The trees and all the birds that live in them were. given to us by God our creator. God gives us these things so that we may experience the beauty of His world.

Lesson three,  remember

God is in control!

 Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid. John 14:27 NIV 

Lesson four

I should keep my thoughts, mind, and heart pointed in the right direction.

Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable— if anything is excellent or praiseworthy— think on these things. Philippians 4:8 NIV translation

Yes, I had to look each verse up to recall exactly what they were. But that is not the point of why I am telling you this. 

Be Blessed my friends. With God, all things are possible.

Take all things to God in prayer!

Canadian geese, Baby oil and Sunburn

They arrive every summer like the geese that fly in from places to the north. What am I talking about you might ask?  I am talking about the Canadian geese and the summer vacationers that would visit the quaint shores of the New Jersey beachfront.  

Let me take just a moment to tell you about the Jersey shore that I knew. It was not like the sensationalized stories you see on the reality TV show by that same name. 

This is my Jersey shore.

 Scattered along the coast of New Jersey, you will find many delightful small towns. The shoreline, with its broad beaches, has always been a favorite location for the vacationers who invade its quiet shores and villages each summer. At the same time but a bit further inland, flocks of geese arrive each year from Canada to settle on their favorite lake or pond and cornfield.

Like the geese, the beach vacationers arrive faithfully every summer. They return each year to their favorite beach houses, cabins, or hotels.   They drive in from places to the north such as Newark, Iselin, Woodbridge, and New York City.  Their cars are overflowing with umbrellas, beach chairs, beach blankets, and other necessities that they felt they would need to survive their days on the white sand. 

 The northern visitors refer to the local residents as Clam Diggers. A term originated from the area's history of harvesting clams along the muddy shores of the Shark and Manasquan rivers. 

 

In late spring and early summer, the beaches quickly become littered with bikini-clad young women who smelled of baby oil and iodine—a magical mixture designed to quicken the tanning process.  The belief among these sun worshipers was that this mixture would turn pasty white winter skin a deep golden summer tan.   

Sadly users of this mix spend their evenings trying to cool the burning heat of a fiery and angry sunburn with a cooling ointment of either aloe or noxzema skin cream. The victims of the sun's heat, pretend not to be bothered by the pain.  Should the soothing lotions did not temper their heated skin, the summer visitors try to numb their pain with a frosted margarita or some other frozen concoction with a tropical name. 

   Handsome young men with muscular and toned bodies would play volleyball or football in the sand.   The men secretly hoping to attract the attention of one of the pretty young bikini-clad women.  This migration of geese and vacationers happened each summer, and upon their arrival, the yearly rituals would begin. 

Just like the geese, the summer visitors arrived faithfully every year. except for this year of the pandemic, The crowded beaches are not as full as the vacationers try to keep a social distance.  Will the geese will be made to social distance, wear masks, or will they just not show up to the waterways of the New Jersey shore?

 

Father's day, summer and stories told to a daughter

The most memorable images that I have of my father include summer days, good food, and hearty laughter. Yet, not all my memories of my Dad are happy. There are always unpleasant memories that want to mix themselves up with the good ones. That is just the way minds work. You are enjoying a great memory, and the next thing you know, an unpleasant memory comes slithering in the backdoor, trying to take over your mind. Just like the serpent does in the Adam and Eve story in the bible.  In the garden, everything was rolling along great. Then suddenly in slithered the serpent, and with him, chaos and evil.  Like the best memories that recycle back through your mind,  
God recycled His goodness, love, and triumph over evil again into this world. 

Like all of us, my Dad was human. 

Dad lost his temper. Dad was the one who passed out the whippings with his belt when he thought we deserved it. Although there was always a lot of discussion between us on whether I really deserved the whooping and I would desperately try to convince Dad that one of my two brothers committed the belt worthy infraction. 
In the end, love and goodness always recycled back in. Truth prevailed, and justice was served with the compassionate heart of a loving father.

 In the summer, when we returned home from a full day at the beach, we would have an outside dinner. Most people would call this a cookout. Our meal would consist of corn on the cob, California hamburgers, and my mother's famous potato salad. There are two things that I didn't understand at these meals. The first thing was that I didn't know if my mother's Potato salad was genuinely famous, but my father talked about it as if it was the best, world-renowned potato salad and why did we eat California Hamburgers if we lived in New Jersey? Those were my mysteries of life at that time.

My father talked about a lot of things. Dad talked about his family, his work, the Vietnam War, and lots of other things that didn't mean much to me because I was young. I would sit at the table with my two brothers and my mother as we listened to my father tell stories about a magical dog named Longfellow.  In my mind, I pictured Longfellow as a little black and brown dachshund with a wagging tail.  That pup that sprung up from my father's imagination loved to eat the cobs from the corn that was left over after my family had nibbled all of the kernels of sweet Jersey corn off of the cobs.      Even at the age of 18, I was still fascinated with my father's silly stories.   Finally, in the last story, my father told me about sweet Longfellow, the long brown and black dog that ate corn cobs died.  The little dog tragically Choked on a corncob.  At some point, my father's stories ended, and so did the laughter at the table. Maybe my father thought that at eighteen years old, I had outgrown his stories about Longfellow.  Sitting at my desk this father's day, I wish I could hear just one more Longfellow story. So love could recycle back. I would listen carefully to everything my father talked about if I could. Miss you, Dad.

Christmas Memories on a June morning.

As I write, I pause and glance out my window.  I can see branches that are full of green leaves. I watch as they sway from side to side in the wind.  It is another cloudy day with a chance of heavy rain excepted later in the afternoon. The forecast is that the temperature will only reach in the mid-fifties.  This weather is unusual for early June in North Carolina. Here temperatures usually reach into the eighties at this time of year. But today the clouds stay in place, hovering above.  The winds are gusting. The lack of sunshine and the cooler temperatures remind me of growing up in New Jersey. Today feels like it might have felt if I was in New Jersey on a late fall November afternoon.  In New Jersey, It would be the type of day that you would avoid venturing out. But, over time, the fall rainy days cease, the sun returns, and the air becomes cold and crisp. We bundle up and with hats, and mittens, venturing out again as we prepare for Christmas.  
As I reflect on the cooler air this June day in North Carolina, my thoughts drift to a time when I was young. Memories swirl in my mind as I reminisce about those New Jersey late fall days and the seasons that followed. Winter and Christmas come to mind, and a pleasant memory emerges. 
I was nine years old. My cousin Bambi and I were given permission to Christmas shop on our own for the first time. It was a privilege, and It made me feel like a grown-up.  Bambi, who is three days my senior and I would be allowed to ride the bus to Asbury Park. That was where everyone from our small community did their shopping.  That shopping adventure and my first solo bus ride would mark a milestone in growing up. 
 That day came and on one cold December afternoon. Bambi and I  waited on the corner of 13th Avenue and Main Street for the bus that travels from Belmar to Asbury Park  I remember gazing out the bus's window looking at all the storefronts in the towns we passed through. In Belmar, We passed Schotoz's five and dime, the movie theater, the post office, and the big bank building on the corner.  All of those buildings familiar because they were the places that my grandmother and I would walk to when I stayed at her house.  The bus continued on through Belmar, to  Bradley Beach, Avon by the Sea, and Ocean Grove. The excitement of our adventure soon turned to nervousness as the streets and storefronts became less familiar. The eight-minute trip to Asbury Park began to feel like we had been on the bus for hours. Suddenly, Bambi and I could see the decorated windows of Steinbach's department store on the corner of Cookman Avenue.  The bus door opened, and we hopped down the big bus steps.
There Bambi and I stood in front of the store with the best magical Christmas display in town.  That year's animated Christmas display. Featured Rudolf, whose head and legs moved to the tune of Here Comes Santa Claus. Bursting with excitement, I looked in awe at Santa's sleigh, which was overflowing with brightly colored and perfectly wrapped gifts. I secretly wondered if one of those gifts might have my name on it. Quickly  I tried to think back through the past year to determine if there was any indiscretion that I might have to atone for before Christmas. Setting the question aside, Bambi and I shopped all afternoon amid the never-ending Christmas decorations.  Using money that I had saved throughout the year and the little extra my mother gave me, I bought the best gifts that I could find. I bought perfume for my mother, a tie for my dad and balsa wood airplanes for my brothers and I finished my shopping with the selection of a warm scarf that I choose for my a scarf for my grandmother. When we were done with our purchases, Bambi and I went across the street to the soda fountain. I ordered a chocolate Ice cream soda, and Bambi ordered french fries, we shared our treats then quickly and rushed back to the bus stop. I was frightened that we might have missed the bus, and the sun was beginning to go down. Shortly the bus arrived at the stop across from Steinback's Department store on Cookman Avenue in Asbury Park New Jersey on that cold, crisp day.  It was a trip that I will always remember, especially on a chilly June day in North Carolina.

Catching fireflies

   

Do you remember chasing fireflies on a warm summer evening?  I remember the thrill and the excitement I felt as a child as I ran through the back yards of our neighborhood. The sun was setting and the moon was rising. The smell of lilacs floated in the air. We had dirty summer bare feet. full of dust and dried mud. No one cared that our feet became dirty as we walked barefooted down the dirt road where we lived called Locust Court. We visited our neighbors on sweltering summer afternoons to drink lemonade, chat and say hello. We were young, tanned, and sweaty. All the joys of summer were ahead of us and were ours to explore.

IN June after school let out for the summer, the fireflies would appear. Slowly at first, we would see them one or two at a time. Their numbers increasing with each passing minute.

It was the beginning of summer when the sky was full of twinkling lights from the bright stars above and the magical fireflies began to rise from the ground. that I, my brothers, and our friends would run in pursuit of those mysterious flashes of light.  We would gently scoop up those magical creatures with our bare hands and carefully place the insects in a glass jar with holes punched into the lid for air. The jars were lovingly prefilled with blades of grass a twig or two and a piece of moist paper towel.  We believed that these items would ensure our little friends' survival until they arrived at the place where they paid children one dollar for one thousand fire sometimes we would catch fireflies in mid-flight then bragging to our friends of our bug catching skills. If one was quick-footed you could carefully pick the winged creatures out of the freshly mowed summer grass where they landed, before they took to flight again. We would run, chase, and collect fireflies until we heard the welcoming song of the ice cream man's truck. We would wait in line to choose our favorite frozen treat. I would order a sky blue pink ice pop. Although there was no such treat by that name the man in truck aways knew what I wanted. I sat with my friends in the cool grass until we were called by our parents to come home for a bath and bedtime. But until then the running catching and counting of fireflies continued. We would call out to each other after each successful capture adding to our count ten, fifteen. twenty, and so on.   Hoping each night that we would reach elusive the goal of one thousand captured fireflies. Why one thousand you might ask.  One thousand is the number of fireflies that must be caught in order to send them to the people that would pay kids one dollar for fireflies.  

We never reached that elusive goal of one thousand fireflies in that jar. Each night a parent would take pity on the poor insects and grant them their freedom. Each morning we would be told the magical creatures escaped and the chasing and counting would begin again when the sun set and the moon rose. We never received the one dollar in the mail which was a small fortune to children who bought ice cream from a truck. We did not even realize or care that dividing .that one dollar by fourteen would have resulted in each child getting a whopping seven cents.

As I look back and remember those hot summer nights, I realize we never received that treasured one dollar in the mail from the people who pay children for one thousand fireflies. But the priceless treasure of lasting friendships, the joy of having hope in a future gift, and the fullness and pleasure of the simple things in life. Are the priceless gift we received in return for a few fireflies. During this time as many of us are staying home, we can try to catch one thousand fireflies. If you do put them in a jar and mail them to the people who pay one dollar.

Wheelchair shaming is real

Even though I am not a young person, I have experienced Wheelchair shaming.

Borrowed/reposted from Cressida M.R. Hale

We Need More Awareness of Ambulatory Wheelchair Users

Cressida M.R Hale 

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November 25, 2018

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As science and medicine continue to evolve over time, hammer-wielding advocates and a new generation, devoted to both awareness and education, shatter outdated stereotypes. However, there’s still a battle for awareness about ambulatory wheelchair use. The term refers to individuals who are disabled and use wheelchairs but are capable of walking in some circumstances. I am one of these individuals.

There are many reasons why a person may be an ambulatory wheelchair user. My own reason is my debilitating fatigue, unsteady, injury-prone joints, and syncope (or fainting). Other reasons may include lower-body injuries, joint pain, or unsteadiness. The list continues on because mobility aids are not just for geriatric and paraplegic use. Mobility aids provide people of all ages and illnesses with a sense of freedom.

Medicine continues to advance and is beginning to recognize both invisible and chronic illnesses among the younger generations. In fact, young people account for the majority of mobility aid users. Yet the harmful and outdated stereotypes surrounding wheelchair use often get used as a public weapon against young individuals, especially those whose disabilities may not be visible. Many ambulatory wheelchair users report harassment and discrimination simply because the public is unaware of ambulatory wheelchair use.

In my experience, there is nothing more humiliating and frustrating than needing to explain your physical health to someone who is judging you for needing a mobility aid. We do not require able-bodied individuals to disclose personal information to strangers, yet we demand this of ambulatory wheelchair users simply because they don’t fit a stereotype. Here are some of the common myths and comments we face, followed by my responses.

“You’re taking away from the people who really need it.” Just because we can walk doesn’t mean we don’t need mobility aids. Our lives would be a whole lot simpler if we did not need these aids in the first place. Also, it’s not like there is a wheelchair shortage.

“You don’t look paralyzed.” Well, you don’t look like a doctor. We generally consider judging someone by their appearance to be impolite. Judging someone’s health by their appearance is a guaranteed way to make a fool of yourself. Unless you have been to medical school and you are my physician, please keep your assumptions to yourself.

“You’re too young to need a wheelchair.” People commonly say this, and it makes very little sense. If I were to say, “You look too old to be standing on your own two feet,” that would be considered rude, so why is it OK for you to say it to us?

It’s time to destroy the stereotypes we associate with disabilities and wheelchair users. We just want the same independence everyone else enjoys.