16,790 Days!

16,790 days, give or take a few, refers to the number of 24 hour periods I've spent married to my hubby. Yesterday we celebrated our 46th wedding anniversary, and we're both still in it for the long haul. To say that every single minute of every single day has been gloriously happy would be a downright lie! To say that every single minute of every single day has been a living hell would also be grossly untrue! But, to say that every single minute of every single day has been worth it, is an extreme understatement because our life together has been exactly that, WORTH IT!

We were so young in 1968 and hadn't a clue what marriage entailed. We're, let's say, much older now, and I must confess at times still don't get it. Yet we keep trying because of our commitment to each other hasn't waivered one iota. When we spoke our vows to have, to hold, and to love, we meant it. When we agreed that for better or worse, richer or poorer, in sickness or in health until death, we meant it.

We became parents to our beautiful daughter, Joy, seven months after we said "I do." Thirteen months later, our son, Barry, came along. Needless to say, with my hubby working eight hours to pay the bills, and me caring full time for two babies and holding down the fort, we had little time for each other. On most days, hellos, good-byes, and good nights comprised the totality of our conversations. Since we were only engaged four months after we met, and then married seven months later, we knew squat, one about the other. Heck, I didn't know what foods he hated which turned out to be that he loved everything except pigs feet and he didn't even know my full name, Florence Frances Agnes Kolton Barnett! I didn't know he wasn't a fan of the beach, and he certainly didn't know I would be a beach bum for the rest of my life without complaint. We both were guilty of not knowing one another's favorite color! Imagine?

But over the years we slowly realized that all of who we were and what we wanted out of life would reveal itself eventually. All we needed to do was pay attention. Sometimes when we did just that, our lives were blissfully happy. However when our observations diminished or were totally nonexistent, our lives were taken over by resentment and hurt. Arguments ensued and days of silence took over our household. Not only did we suffer, but our children did as well. Even though they were quite young, they felt the tension and disconnect. Seperately we tried to attend to the needs of our daughter and son, but know that their lives were negatively changed. How could they not be!

After decades of practicing to understand one another and make compromises for the good of our family, did our marriage improve immensely. Today we know pretty much everything about each other and accept the foibles and quirks the are part of our beings the we had a difficult time tolerating way back when. We laugh at how silly we were in trying to be right instead of being happy.

Oh, I would be remiss if I didn't mention out third child, Kristy, who was born eight years after her brother. Although I was highly upset at first, over time we both realized that she was the best thing that could have happened to us.  We were older and had been there, done that already, but we were wiser, too. We not only had quality time with only one baby to care for, but we definitely made sure to be there for each other.

16,790 days seems like a long time, but actually it isn't.  We still have a lot to learn about each other, and hopefully we'll have the time to do it.  Our life together has been fruitful, we have seven amazing grandchildren to dote on.  Have there been bumps along the road? Definitely!

But on day, 16,791, give or take a few, we're still commitment and it's 100% with out a doubt, WORTH IT!

Why the Need to Defame?

Why is it that no matter what a person does, what extraordinary feat a person accomplishes, what horrific experiences a person endures, is it always necessary to spotlight something negative about him or her? Perhaps in finding fault, the person who does nothing, accomplishes little, and never suffers extreme pain or loss, can boast that their actions have never warranted criticism. What they fail to realize is that they've done nothing!

A soldier returns home from Afghanistan after being abducted and held captive for five years. This young man has undoubtedly been deprived of food, water, and most importantly his freedom. Assuredly he's been subjected to physical and mental torture by the Taliban. He has little to no contact with the outside world especially his family. His health is terribly compromised.

Then one day his country comes to his rescue and negotiates his release in exchange for five known terrorists. Although some may think such a bargain too high, what exactly is the right price for a man's life?

In our local paper, the headlines revealed that Sgt. Bowe Bergdahl from Iowa was most likely AWOL on June 30, 2009 at the time of his capture. Bummer, right? All of our elation and admiration for a twenty-three year old who went through such a terrible ordeal for five years has certainly been misplaced. The only thing such a coward deserves is our ridicule and disdain. Right?

After all, Sgt. Bergdahl admittedly criticized the military for lacking in leadership, caring little for the plight of the Afghan people, even going so far as to bully both soldiers and townsfolk for no reason. He says the U.S. Army is a joke. What kind of soldier rebukes his superiors and fellow servicemen in such a vile manner? Perhaps five years in Taliban captivity is exactly what this ingrate deserved. Right?

Wrong, and wrong! On the night in question, Bowe completed his surveillance duties and then asked if it would be a problem if he took his rifle and gear when he walked away from the outpost. Of course he was told that indeed it would be a problem.

At age twenty-three, Sgt. Bergdahl became disillusioned with the military he had once committed himself to much like becoming aware of an unfaithful wife who cared little for him and the dreams they'd once shared.
About 50% of the marriages in the U.S. end in divorce without societal rebuke.

Does the town newspaper headline the couple's split, highlighting her failure to keep the house clean, or his propensity to spend money on fast cars? Is their dirty laundry plastered across the front page so that we now view these two as unworthy of our sympathy? If jailed for their misconduct, would we rail against their release? I highly doubt it.

Certainly going AWOL was a serious mistake in judgement. But in this case, I believe Sgt. Bowe Bergdahl has paid a high price for his misconduct. Five years held by terrorists, tortured and abused, deprived of his very freedom was cruel and unusual punishment for his offense. He's finally home now, and deserves our understanding and compassion, not our ridicule and disdain. Let's rally around this soldier and his family and try to give him the benefit of the doubt. After all, he enlisted to serve his country, to bring peace to a war-torn, God-forsaken land even though it meant putting himself in harm's way.

This person did something, accomplished much, and endured pain and loss. Right? Why the need to defame?

Immensely Proud and Profoundly Saddened

If you happened to catch the PBS broadcast of the 25th anniversary of the National Memorial Day Concert last night, hosted by Gary Sinise and Joe Montegna, you are no doubt feeling immensely proud and profoundly saddened this morning. The line-up of orchestrational expertise, notable vocalists and performers, and military dignitaries was impressive, but what was perhaps even more striking to me was the solemn demeanor of the massive crowd gathered in front of the Capitol in Washington, D.C. Thousands sat in respectful silence as patriotic songs were rendered, actual war film viewed, and a number of heartfelt speeches delivered to pay tribute to our fallen soldiers. Of course, those serving today were honored with applause and appreciative words as well.

In that crowd were many of the young men and women who've returned from duty forever broken. Those in wheelchairs, those who have suffered loss of limbs, those who can no longer remember, and those who remember and wish to God that they didn't, sat with tears streaming down their faces. As I questioned the "why" of it all, the answer became crystal clear. These people believe that freedom is worth fighting for, even dying for. However we who live in America and enjoy that freedom and take it for granted don't possess anything remotely akin to the passion of the soldiers who are consciously willing to make the ultimate sacrifice. We barely give freedom a second thought except maybe on holidays designated specifically to remind us of how lucky we are to live in this great country of ours.

One of the honorees, John Peck, a young man who at the age of 25 lost both arms and both legs in Afghanistan, truly touched my heart.  As I listened to his story, and watched the tears flow, I couldn't help but join him in his emotional release.  I felt extremely guilty that this man will never walk again, never hold anyone in his arms, never be whole.  I, on the other hand, having done nothing to preserve our freedom, not only can walk, but skip, jump, climb, and run. Having done nothing to preserve our freedom, I can not only hold someone, but use my hands in countless activities that give me great pleasure. And, I am whole without ever lifting a finger to preserve our freedom. John Peck is my hero and I am humbled by his greatness.

Another upcoming holiday, June 6, 1944 is known as D-Day. During World War II, our troops landed on the beaches of Normandy and were mowed down by the Germans even before they had a chance to defend themselves. I suppose this day of remembrance is extremely special to me because I was born only three months after over 6,000 Americans lost their lives that day. I somehow believe that one of their spirits wandering over the earth entered my soul and still lives within me even now. He keeps reminding me that I enjoy my freedom because he was willing to forego his own.

Please remember all those who have served and continue to serve not only on Memorial Day or D-Day, but throughout the year. Whatever you can do, deem it an honor and do it with the same passion that those in our military faithfully exhibit for you. Maybe this can help a little to assuage the guilt we all must bear.

Sixty-Six Years of Wishing

For the past sixty-six years, I've wished that my dad hadn't passed away so soon.  I was only three, and my brother, Dan, five when Dad died on May 19, 1948, at the age of 38. He was inspecting a steel furnace door, when it suddenly became unhinged and fell, crushing him from the waist down. His accident happened on the seventeenth of May and he died two days later.

I documented this horrible tragedy in my first chapter book, Playing Hooky (When We Were Kids, Book 1) so that my children and grandchildren will know who he was, a talented and funny person who loved his wife, son and daughter to no end, and enjoyed every moment of his short life to the fullest.

On every death anniversary, I think about what my life would have been like had he lived.  I know I would have been a "daddy's girl" because we had a special bond even before I was born.  Dad told my mom that if their second child was a girl, he wanted her name to be Florence Frances.  Florence because it meant "flowers" and Frances because his mentally-impaired younger sister's name was Frances and since she would never have the chance to have her own children, he wanted his daughter to carry her name. He had a heart of gold, my dad.

I have only a few pictures of him and just one of him, my brother, and I all holding hands, taken in Baba's backyard.  But the images in my mind are many.  I see Dad coming home from the mill, picking me up and swinging me around the room, him smiling from ear to ear, and me giggling excitedly.  I hear him telling mom about his day as he lovingly embraces her. He asks what's for dinner and promises ice cream if we eat all our vegetables. Afterwards Dad reads the daily paper from cover to cover.  When he gets to the comic strips, he howls out loud.  My brother and I can't imagine what he finds so funny, but we join him nonetheless. He sings every nursery rhyme he can think of and then graces us with "Danny Boy" the Irish ditty he became famous for in our hometown.  Although his given name was Frank, everybody called him Dan because whenever he had the opportunity, he sang that song. I see Dad helping me get ready for bed and telling me stories of his own childhood.  He kisses my forehead, lets me know how much he loves me, and wishes me sweet dreams.

One morning just like every other one, Dad fixes me a bowl of cereal, picks up his lunch box and heads to work.  When I hear the four o'clock mill whistle, since we live directly across from the gate, I run out on the front porch to meet him. But on this particular day, he doesn't come home.  He's in the hospital fighting for his life, a battle he eventually loses.

Yet I still see him proudly watching me make my First Communion, graduate high school, secure my first teaching job, get married, have three beautiful children, become a successful educator, be blessed with seven energetic grandchildren, start a second career as an author at the ripe old age of sixty-eight, and live every moment of my life to the fullest exactly like he did.

My Dad has always been here with me though I didn't realize that until just a few years ago.  However, having come to that conclusion no matter how late in life, I now have a beautiful sense of peace that was missing for so long. And every time I read the comic strips in our local paper, I hear him howling.

Love you, Dad, always and forever.

MOTHER vs TO MOTHER

Mother, the noun, is defined as a female who bears an offspring.  To mother, the verb, is defined as someone who tends to the necessary needs of the offspring she bore or has willingly accepted the responsibility for the offspring she has vowed to raise to adulthood.

Becoming a mother barring any medical problems is relatively simple.  Engage in intercourse with a male of that species who supplies the sperm that unites with the female's egg, wait out the appropriate gestation period and deliver the baby or babies on a certain date.

(From this point on, my comments pertain specifically to humans.)  But, to mother a child from birth to adulthood is an entirely different experience that requires a woman to be patient, selfless, involved, and committed.

From the get-go, while in labor, the mother-to-be exhibits extraordinary patience while suffering the extreme pain connected with delivery.  Nature demands that she begins to mother even before she's ever laid eyes on her child. What she is enduring, how she looks and acts throughout her excruciating experience doesn't even enter into her mind at the time.  Her selflessness has already taken hold of her being even without conscious awareness on her part.

As soon as her baby is placed in her arms, she begins to mother immediately.  She inspects every inch of the tiny infant, pours every ounce of love into it that she can emote, and keeps careful watch on the baby as well as anyone who comes near.

And from the moment she returns home, she begins to mother her baby.  Her patience grows with every wail no matter the day or the hour.  She becomes less and less concerned about her self as her focus on her child intensifies.  She is completely involved in every aspect of her baby's life.  And most importantly she is committed to mother her infant for the rest of his or her life with patience, selflessness, involvement and commitment.

Indeed, every child has a mother, but not every child is mothered the way he or she deserves to be.  In fact, unfortunately in our world today, more and more mothers don't mother at all.  They have no patience with their children; screaming and smacking is their chosen method of training.  They are only absorbed in their needs and wants whether it be drugs, alcohol, material things, or advancing a career.  They have absolutely no involvement in the life of their child; interest in school work, extracurricular activities, the company they keep, and what they watch and read isn't on their radar at all, they simply can't be bothered. 

And they aren't committed to their children, the can't be because they have no idea of what it takes to be committed to another person other than themselves.

If I were to rate myself as on my mothering skills during my children's early years, sadly from one to ten, I was probably around a six.  But as I matured, I realized that I owed them so much more than I had managed to give.  I did develop more patience, and I did put aside my needs in order to satisfy theirs, and I did become more involved in every aspect of their lives, and my commitment grew stronger with my awareness that it had been somewhat lacking.  I thank God that I woke up to what it meant to be not only a mother, but what it meant to mother.

I pray that the young mothers of today begin mothering their precious children in time; the influence they wield now is the essential element needed to ensure that the lives of their babies will be healthy and productive leading them to become responsible adults.

Becoming a mother is relatively simple; but mothering your children is the hardest thing you will ever be asked to do.  But doing it is the greatest gift you can possibly give them.  And whether or not you realize it, it is the greatest gift you can give yourself as well!

Old Mice, Young Blood

So I'm reading the Trib this morning, and lo and behold, the answer to the fountain of youth smacks me right between the eyes!  According to research done at the University of California, San Francisco, and Harvard, two prestigious higher learning establishments, the brains of old mice are greatly rejuvenated by injecting the blood of young mice into them.  The aged rodents get stronger, can exercise longer, and become more mentally acute.  

At age 70, if I'm to believe this medical phenomenon, I need to go out, find some youngsters, persuade them to donate a pint of their blood for my much-needed remake, and I'm good to go for another twenty to thirty years of pumping iron, running marathons, and pursuing the ever-elusive Ph.D. in abnormal psychology.  I just can't believe my good fortune!

No, in all seriousness, I can't believe it.  First of all, drinking the blood of humans to live forever only truly happens in the movies.  I've never been a fan of vampire flicks and doubt very much such creatures ever existed.

Secondly, who in their right mind wants to live past let's say one hundred?  Your family and your best friends have left this valley of tears long ago, and you have nothing in common with the society in which you currently find yourself.  People and their lifestyles have drastically changed, and I would guess, not always for the better.  So here you are, fit as a fiddle, smarter than a whip, and alone in mind, body, and, most importantly, soul.  You don't agree with present day politics, not that you ever did, and realize you still can't make a significant difference in local, state, and federal governing unless you join forces which is against every fiber of your rejuvenated being.

And thirdly, although you're stronger, faster, and smarter, one look in the mirror horrifies you!  The road map of wrinkles etched across your face, along with sagging eyelids, and drooping jowls makes you draw back in disgust.  How could I become so ugly, when what seems like only yesterday, I was a hot chick! But because of your newly-acquired mental acuity you realize that "yesterday" was sixty-some years ago, and your good looks are definitely a thing of the past.

After careful analysis of the research mentioned above, I've concluded that no matter how many Bloody Marys I might be offered to enhance my aged brain, I will most certainly abstain.  My life has been the result of the choices I've made, whether or not they've been the best, but they've been MY choices.  I've enjoyed every minute and wouldn't have changed most of that time.  The few things I wish could have evolved differently were totally out of my control.

Getting old isn't the worse thing that can happen to a person.  Getting old and regretting the life you've chosen to live IS!

Feeling Sorry For Yourself?

Next time you throw a pity party for yourself think about Tyler Liebegott, a twenty-one year old college student who was born with mitochondrial disease for which no cure exists.  I'm no doctor but from what I gather Tyler's illness robs him of energy typically derived from food and oxygen.  He has survived four strokes and has undergone 38 surgeries in his lifetime.  He lives with constant pain and has been on death's doorstep multiple times.

The life expectancy for mitochondrial sufferers is about 10 years, but most succumb much sooner. So why even bother to make something of yourself, right?  Wrong, at least as far as this young man is concerned.
Tyler spends his time away from his studies in biological sciences at the University of Pittsburgh, Greensburg, PA, speaking to high school students about his condition and how it propels him to move forward despite its debilitating symptoms.  He mentors children afflicted with mitochondria as well.

One might be led to think that Tyler only lives for the moment.  You'd be wrong on that count, too.  This fellow dreams of being a doctor specializing in, you guessed it, the treatment of mitochondria. Tyler has no time for self-pity but instead sees everything in his life as opportunities to be cherished.

People like Tyler Liebegott give the rest of us mere humans pause for thought.  A headache, back pain, or a failing mark on a test send most spiraling into a deep funk.  Woe is me! I'm a good person so why is this happening?  Stop feeling sorry for yourself in such mundane matters. Nip it in the bud and find something positive to focus on.

When throwing a pity party for yourself, remember Tyler Liebegott, but don't be inclined to throw one for him either.  He can't be bothered with such self-indulgence because he's in the business of changing lives one person at a time.  He doesn't feel sorry for himself and he certainly isn't looking for your sympathy. He'd rather you learn more about mitochondrial disease and join him in the fight.

Tyler can be reached at www.trustinhope.com

And for God's sake, stop feeling sorry for yourself!