Easter Memories

There are special times that I always remember. Holidays are some of the most memorable. Particularly, when I was a child or in my younger and wilder days.

There are some that make me smile fondly and others that inspire a laugh even today.

I remember when I was nine. That year, the women in our family had taken up sowing. Okay, most of them could sow anyway, but this year it was extra special. All of them women and selected a pattern for a dress and had decided that they would make them for themselves and their daughters. We were going to be matching that year. The only difference would be the color. Even the material and the pattern would be the same.

I remember being very excited about getting a "grown up" dress. Even back in those days, little tomboy that I was, I still wanted to be like the adults and dress pretty.

My cousin Chris and her mom were going to wear blue checked gingham. My cousin Candy and her mom were wearing red checked gingham and I got to choose our color, my mom's and mine. It was green checked gingham. I always loved green.

The pattern called for long dresses, kind of old fashioned, with high waistes and white lace to outline the square neckline, puffy cap sleeves, the flounce of the dress and the ribbon that tied around our waistes.

I remember being so proud of the dress. My mom being the coordinating woman that she was, bought us both white patten leather shoes. Mine, of course, were flat heeled, rounded toe with a strap across the top of my foot like the tap shoes that dancers wear.

I had a white boat hat with a green ribbon around the crown, a little white patten leather purse and some white gloves. My mom was raised up when women wore white gloves with their Sunday going to Church clothes so she bought us both some matching gloves. I felt very grown up.

In a photo album there are pictures of me and my mom, my cousins and their moms, standing for mother/daughter pictures.

That Easter we were all going down to the country to go to church with my grandfather's youngest sister's family. They had eight children and some of them were close to our age and a few were quite a bit older and had children our age. We always enjoyed going down to their farm and riding horses or just running wild through the fields.

I remember the church that we went to. It was the kind you only see in movies. A little white clapboard building with arched windows down the sides and one main stained glass window behind the pulpit that would shine down brilliant colors upon the congregation during the morning services. The stained glass window depicted a scene of Jesus as a shephard, carrying a sheep under one arm, a staff in the other and several sheep at his feet; all in a pastoral scene with green fields, blue skies and a golden sun. Jesus was wearing a pristine white robe and a golden halo.

That's what I remember about church services that morning. I don't remember what the pastor said. I just remember being awed by the brilliant picture before me.

I remember when church let out, all the adults stood around and chatted on the front steps. Our entire family, every distant cousin, aunt, uncle and prodigal son had shown up for the services. The pastor stood on the front steps of the church and greeted us as we departed. He was extremely impressed with the large number of our family members. We had filled his pews that Sunday as they had not been filled in years. Probably filled his offering plates as well.

I remember my dad giving us each a quarter to drop in the offering plate. This was 197? (excuse me if I don't give my age away) and a quarter could buy a gallon of gas or a pack of cigarettes or a burger at McDonald's. I knew the worth of a quarter and I remember hoping that God thought it was enough from a kid of nine.

After a few minutes of "jawing", our family got together for group pictures. My grandfather was wearing a brown suit with cream colored slacks, a brown and cream vest, a cream colored shirt and a brown suit jacket with deep brown velvet on the lapels. His tie was a wide brown tie that matched his suit jacket and had a big square knot tied at his throat. He was wearing brown wing tipped shoes and a golden stick pin was in his tie.

My grandmother wore a beautiful cream colored dress with a high neck and long sleeves. There was lace at the cuffs and the neck. The dress ended at her knees and she wore cream colored heels. She also had on her necklace that she never took off. A tiny delicate gold cross.

They had a picture taken and I remember being able to see the cross in the picture. My grandparents were buried in those clothes, their "special" clothes that matched.

Later, we adjourned to my grandfather's sister's house for a smorgasboard of food. Ham, boiled eggs, potato salad, cole slaw, you name it, it was on the table. All of the women having brought a "dish" and trying to out do the others as they had done every year. My mom made "deviled eggs". It was her specialty and everyone always begged her to bring them. I always felt like a "big person" when I got to help her fix the eggs. Usually, I was relegated to sprinkling on the paprika or being the taste tester, but I didn't mind.

Even today, deviled eggs are my mom's specialty. Everyone looks for them at the family get togethers. I can't remember the last time we had left overs.

Everybody "oohed" and "aahed" over our matching dresses. Of course, our side of the family was the family that was always together the most. I think the others always envied us.

Pausing for a moment from past history, I am at my brother's right now and we stayed up all night coloring eggs and prepping the Easter baskets. Now we're all getting punch drunk and my bro keeps singing goofy songs with lyrics that he made up. A moment ago he was in the bathroom singing, My Girl Wants To Party All the Time, but he is replacing the word "party" with "potty". It's just wrong.

Earlier he was singing the song from "Meet Me In St. Louie": Ding, ding, ding when the trolley; ring, ring, ring went the bell; zing, zing, zing went my heartstrings...

You get the picture. My redneck brother is singing Judy Garland.

Back to the past...

After we had our pot luck dinner, the adults who were still relatively young, all decided that they were going to play touch football. The men and some of the younger women who had thought to bring a change of clothes. I was a tomboy and I wanted to play, too, but I was in a dress so the most I could do was watch. A bunch of the kids were going to watch too and I followed them to the field. It was across the creek and we had to jump it to get to the other side.

Being in a long dress, it was difficult. Not just difficult; impossible.

I didn't make it across the creek. I landed about 3/4 the way across with my left foot sinking into the muddy bank up to ankle. I tried to pull my foot from the muck, but it just sucked my white patten leather shoe off my foot and muck covered my ivory colored tights. I knew in that moment I was in deep trouble.

I reached down and pulled my shoe from the muck and then walked back to my great aunt's house with the mucky, muddy shoe in my hand and dread in my heart. I knew I was going to get a lecture, again, about being a tomboy.

And, I did. But, my great aunt came to my rescue, letting me take a shower, offering me clothes and washing mine.

Then I got to go out and play football.

Then there was the year that it snowed the weekend before, melting just in time for Easter egg hunting. It was muddy and we went to the city park where we found eggs and then played on the equipment. We all jumped on the merry go round and my grandpa was pushing us faster and faster. My youngest cousin who was three, suddenly let go and went flying.

Right

into

the

mud puddle

surrounding the merry go round

face first.

I remember that she got up and had a shocked look on her face. My aunt and uncle started running over to see if she was okay and right then, her mouth opened about the size of a football field.

Somewhere there is an eight millimeter reel with that picture on it.

She's never lived it down.

Then there was Easter about ten years ago. I had a friend who was from Tennessee. He was in the Navy and stationed in Philadelphia. He was our "adopted" brother. His parents' loved us because we always made sure he was taken care of and they had come up to visit him several times, staying at our place and coming to dinner when they didn't.

One year, Craig was going down to visit his family on leave. All of my friends had big family things to go to and my family was in Missouri so Craig invited me to come down to Tennessee with him and visit his family over the Easter holiday.

Craigtold me that his parents went to church every Sunday, but they belonged to different churches. Every holiday they would go to one or the others church service, alternating on the different holidays.

This year it was his mom's turn to take the family to church.

I packed with this in mind and took my best spring dress with matching shoes.

We got up early and got ready for church. His parents left early because his mom wanted to speak to the minister before the service.

As we drove to the church in Craig's truck, he told me that his mom's church was "different".

"Really?" I replied, "How "different" is different?"

He said, "They get a little emotional."

We got to the church and started to pull into the parking lot. A man was standing in the drive and directing traffic. As we drove up, he walked up to the window and started tell us that the parking lot was full. Except, he talked as if he was driving two miles an hour and it was dangerous.

"Sorry....it's....all...full."

Craig had rolled the window, "It's full?"

"Yep." That's it. Yep.

I was looking at the man. He was wearing a western shirt under a pair of overalls with a rodeo jacket on top. His face was kind of round with a pointy chin, but looked like it had met with the side of a bus. He had very big ears. I mean big. They stuck out. Waaaaaay out.

"Is there some place else we can park?" Craig asked.

"Well...what ya' can do is...go down to the stop sign...then ya' take a right...drive down a block...until you see a white house."

"Okay..." Craig said.

"But...don't park there. What yer gonna do it...drive down another block...you'll see a red brick house. You can park there."

Finally. It took him 10 minutes to tell us to drive to the stop sign, take a right, go down two blocks and park in front of the brick house.

We finally got in the church and the service had already started. His mom and dad were sitting in the pew midway down the aisle and the rest of them were packed. There was no sneaking in.

I squeezed into the pew next to his dad, his mom on the otherside and then Craig sat beside me.

Blocking the exit.

The pastor began the service.

He was banging the pulpit with his fist, thumping it as he made his point. The congregation was encouraging him.

"I say JEEEE-SSUUSS walked on water!" THUMP

"Amen, brother!" THe congregation raised their hands and shook them above their heads.

"I say JEEEE-SSUUSS raised the dead!" Thump

"Amen, brother!" Again, the congregation raised their hands and stomped their feet.

"I say JEEEE-SSUSSS is our savior!" THUMP "And, whosever shall believe in him," THUMP "Shall NOT die," THUMP "But have EVERRR-lastin' life!" THUMP

"Amen, brother!" The congregation shouted even louder.

The pastor's face was flushed and the congregation continued to be moved by his impassioned speech. I was paying attention to the pastor somewhat, but also looking around the small church, watching the congregation.

Suddenly, a man with a full head of white hair jumped up five pews down and to the right. He threw his hands into the air and screamed, "Hallelujah!" He climbed out of the pew and began running around the church; round and round the pews. The entire congregation began shaking their hands above their heads and yelling, "hallelujah!" along with the man.

Finally, the man ran down the middle aisle and dropped to his knees before the pastor, placing his head on the floor, his arms outstretched. He r,aised up several times and bowed down again, head touching the floor. All the while, the congregation continued to shout and the pastor banged the pulpit.

"He has RAAIIISSED you UP in the spirit! Hallelujah, brothers and sisters! Hallelujah!"

Finally, the preacher said they were going to play a little music. The old man got up and went back to the pew, the congregation slapped him on his back as he went back to his seat. A band began to play. They had a guitar, a drum and a fiddle. They played, "May the circle, be unbroken" and "Amazing Grace".

The pastor then came back to the pulpit.

"If you believe, you will be SAY-Aved." THUMP

"Amen!"

"If you are not SAY-Aved, you will BURN in the EVERR-Lastin' lake of FI-YER." THUMP

"Amen!"

"You need to GIVE yore-self to JEEE-SSUS!" THUMP

"Amen"

"If you have NOT taken the lord JEEE-SSUS as yore SAY-VYOR, you need to do so TO-DAY!" THUMP

"Amen"

I was still busily watching the congregation and enjoying the spectacle of the pastor on the pulpit. His speech was almost rhythmic and hypnotizing. The congregation was just as entertaining. Some would stand up and clap their hands. Others would stomp their feet. All the while yelling "amen" and "hallelujah".

"Walatumparenilamatomaespetralelousosunax...."

My attention was suddenly refocused on the pulpit. I looked around again at the congregation. Did anyone else notice that? Mrs. M was delicately wiping her eyes with a little handkerchief. She had been moved in the spirit. Mr. M was staring straight ahead. I turned to Craig on my left, just barely moving my head until I could whisper in Craig's direction.

"Pssssttt...dude, ahhh....what's up with that?" I was asking him out of the side of my mouth, keeping my eye on the pastor ahead.

Craig leaned over his head my way and spoke out of the side of is mouth back to me, "I told ya' it was different."

"Dude, you didn't say THAT different!" The pastor was speaking in tongues and he went on for at least 10 minutes, speaking unintelligably. The rest of the congregation seemed to hold their breath as if listening to something that I couldn't hear. It was. They were listening to the spirit.

"Move over," I said.

"Huh?" Craig glanced at me.

"Dude, move over towards the edge." I nudged him with my elbow.

He scooted over a little, "Why?" We were still talking out of the sides of our mouths.

"'Cause. If anybody whips out any snakes, I'm outta here."

I was perfectly serious, but Craig was trying not to laugh, "They don't do that here."

I glanced to my right and noticed that Craig's parents were looking at us so I sat up straight and acted like I was paying attention.

Finally, the pastor seemed to take a deep breath and the congregation finally breathed. I was in awe. I'd never seen or heard anything like that before.

The pastor banged both fists on the pulpit and then raised them above his head, fingers spread open and shaking his hands a little. "If you are NOT SAY-Aved, now is the TIE-IME to come to JEEE-SSUSS!"

"Amen, brother, Amen!"

"Come on down to JEEE-SSUSSes house. He wants to SAY-Ave you from yore SINS!" More hand shaking and more "Amens".

A young man got up and went down front. Craig's mom was looking over at me and seeming to urge me to go down front. I pointed at my chest and mouthed the words, "I'm saved." I'm not sure she believed me.

The pastor looked at the young man, grabbed his microphone and walked down from the raised pulpit. "KNEE-YIL and prepare to take JEEE-SSUSS as yore SAY-AVYOR!"

I thought for a moment I was going to see something that resembled a laying on of the hands. Instead, the pastor told him to bow his head and pray with him. The entire congregation seemed to pray with him, knowing the words by heart. I was still fascinated and diligently trying not to look over at Craig's mom who seemed intent on getting me to go up front. I was torn about what to do. I wasn't "moved in the spirit", but I was a guest in their house.

I leaned over towards Craig again and mouthed out of the side of my mouth, "Craig, would you tell your mom that I'm already saved?"

The young man in front, the pastor and the congregation seemed to be about to break into tears. It was an amazing site and feeling. Finally, the pastor told the young man to rise and presented him like a prize fighter, his hands raised in the air, triumphant. The young man went back to his pew amidst much back slapping, hand shaking and "Welcome, brother."

The pastor went back to the pulpit and began his next phase, wrapping up the service. "Is there ANYone new in our house today? Come on down to the LORDS house and be reCEIVed into his LOVing arms."

Again, Mrs. M seemed to be urging me to go down front. I kept shaking my head.

Finally, the service was over and we sang the last song, clapping with the band.

Mrs. M kept sniffling quietly and wiping her eyes. We left the church and shook hands with the pastor. Mrs. M asked me why I didn't go down front. Mr. M told her to leave me alone, it was my own business what was between me and the lord. Mrs. M seemed a little flustered.

Finally, I said, "Mrs M, I'm already saved."

"Oh. Well, I suppose that's okay. But I thought you'd go down front and be introduced to the congregation?"

Well, I knew she meant well. Mr. M told her to leave me alone.

Finally, I just took the easy way out, nudged Craig in the ribs and said, "Craig wouldn't let me out."

"Wha...?"

Everyone laughed.

We went to breakfast at Bob Evans.

Summary only...

Easter: Leap of Faith

Happy Easter, everyone! It's going to be a beautiful day!

I was thinking about Easter and what it truly means.

A man came to a city at the beginning of a religious festival. He was greeted by crowds with palm fronds, laying them before him as they did for many a king that came before him. He spent time talking to the people about the future, about change, about becoming something more than they were.

Six days later, after accusing the money lenders and the men of power of corruption and greed, desecrating the purpose of their offices and trodding upon the people they were supposed to protect, he enjoyed a nice dinner with some friends, accompanied by wine and bread (the best sort of dinner parties always have some good wine and bread) and then they had a serious discussion about the recent events and what the future held.

After the dinner party, the man and some of his friends retired to a garden to continue to discuss and meditate on the future. The man was troubled because he knew that his political activism had caused him to be noticed by certain men in power. He wondered if he had done the right thing and he prayed about it, asking for guidance, like many men before him and many after.

But, his activism had brought him to the attention of the powerful men and they had already planned to see him "legally" bound over and tried for crimes against the state. They questioned him for hours, denied him food and water and denied him any counsel except his own. Predictably, they found him to be guilty and bound him over for punishment by the state.

Like many men before them and many after, his followers were confused and mostly did their best to protect themselves. They only had a vague idea by information from their leader that one of their own had given their leader up. They were afraid that they would be next. The man that gave their leader up inspired a whole new word in many languages around the world: a Judas. A cheater, a snitch, a turncoat.

Not until Benedict Arnold did a man inspire such a hateful term by his name.

After the leader was questioned, the men seeking to stay in power, took him to the legal authorities of the state, trying to legitimize their power play. At first the state refused to interfere preferring to stay above the petty local politics and keep the situation from exploding. They did not want to be portrayed as the arm of these petty power brokers. But, as the days went on, the state decided that order would only be kept by bowing to the demands of the rabble. Still, the state thought they could play a little game. Give them something and maybe they'd be satisfied. So, they had the man beaten, whipped, scourged and generally tortured. Still the man refused to give them what they wanted. The state presented the beaten man to the mob and asked them if they were satisfied. They demanded again and again his death despite the terrible torture he'd gone through already.

So, the state decided they would attempt to play their last political card by granting a pardon to one man on this special day. He presented the mob with the activist and a real criminal, one known within the community to be a murderer and a thief.

The mob, led by the men of power, demanded the death of the activist and the criminal should be spared.

The state had played it's last card. Realizing that the actions of the state may begin something that they will have no control of in the future, the judge, whose main interest was in keeping his job and being recognized by his superiors, called for water and a towel, symbolically washing his hands of the whole situation and bowing to the demands of the people, sentenced that man to death in the most gruesome manner available to the state; one that they normally held for the most egregious of criminals or for enemies of the state.

Standing in the crowd were his mother and friends, witnessing the terrible plight of their loved one, yet unable to do anything about it, but pray and look for a miracle.

They watched the man, scourged and bleeding, a crown of thorns upon his head and a red cloak around his shoulders, mocking his leadership, be escorted from the place of judgment and, without any appeals, given a cross to bear to the hill where criminals were sent to die. Before him were driven two men, both known and prosecuted criminals. As they were driven to the hill for crucifixion with whips and jeers, the man stumbled and a woman came and gave him a drink and wiped his bloody face with her hair veil. Her name was Veronica and her veil, with the imprint of His face became a symbol of the strength of the mans countenance.

When he stumbled again, a man was pulled from the spectators. Though he wanted to refuse and had his own troubles and cares, he picked up the cross and dragged it with the man to the place of his death.

When they finally reached the place, the man was released from his duties, yet, he seemed unable to leave until he saw the other man's fate.

The activist was crucified along with the two criminals. He hung on the cross for hours, bleeding and dying, begging for a taste of water. A soldier placed a sponge with vinegar on his spear tip and placed it against the dying man's lips. Hardly sufficient to quench his thirst, simply another part of the torture he must endure after all of the pain that came before. The soldiers charged with guarding the crucified men played dice, gambling and laughing as the men above them perished in a horrible and slow manner. One of them had taken the red cloak from the activist and gambled for it's ownership; a soldiers lot being mean and poor.

As they gambled, a storm blew in. The soldiers had become tired of waiting for the dying. One of the soldiers thrust his spear into the side of the activist, puncturing his lung and causing the man to begin to suffocate. As the storm came on, another man took a large club and broke the legs of the men on the cross, forcing their weight to be taken in their arms and chest, ensuring even quicker death by suffocation.

The criminals, dying, spoke amongst themselves, knowing more than the people below them that the activist who hung with them did not deserve their fate. They asked the activist if what he said were true, about the kingdom of His father to come and he told them, "yes, and you will be with me there today." In his last breath, he looked upon his mother below and the few friends that had come to witness his death. He knew their anguish and wished that he could comfort them, but he could not. His dye was cast so long ago, the first moment he spoke against those in power. He asked that His father forgive them.

Finally, he passed and the storm brewed all around him. He was taken from the tree, the crucifix, wrapped in a shroud, cleaned and brought to a tomb in a hill.

This was "good" Friday.

On this "good" Friday, there were many of his family and acquaintances who wondered if there was anything really good about it. Would they, could they, be next?

Three days later, a message came that the stone blocking the tomb of the activist had been rolled away. His mother and his friend, came to the tomb to see. Surely the state would not be so evil as to steal away his body? But, when they came, his body was gone and two men sat in the tomb, chatting. They asked the women why they were seeking the living in the house of the dead.

The two women were confused and they hurried home to tell the others. Most of them thought it was fanciful and wishful thinking. The leader had said it would happen, but they were convinced it was the state trying to deprive them of the only thing they had left. But, when they came to the tomb, they saw the same thing.

A miracle had happened. A dead man had risen from his tomb and walked amongst the living.

When the activist showed himself onto his friends, they still could not believe. He had acted many miracles before their eyes, even raising another man from the dead. Yet, this one act seemed beyond him.

One in particular was the most forceful in denying the vision as real. He thought they were suffering from a mass illusion. His name was Thomas. Doubting Thomas. The activist told the man to come forward and put his finger in the holes in his palms where he had been nailed to the cross. Thomas was convinced.

These remaining friends and family took a leap of faith and decided to believe in the power of God.

It does take a huge leap of faith to believe a man can walk from the tomb.

Yet, after 2000 years, there were so many men and women who came after him, gambling all on a leap of faith.

Erik the Red, crossing an ocean that was said to fall off and be occupied by monsters. He found a new land.

Christopher Columbus bet his entire life and reputation on the fact that the world was round and that he could reach land by going west continuously.

Men took the first steam engine train when many others thought the speed would rip their flesh from their bones.

Later, men believed that men of different color could be the same as them and fought for it.

The next man believed he could send radio waves through the air while many laughed. And another believed he could fly with the aid of hot air and a containment device. And another believed he could fly with wings and an engine. Another thought he could transmit his voice over a wire. Still another believed he could harness the power of lightening, light the world with a current of energy and a piece of metal. Some believed they had discovered the smallest atom and how to divide it to create energy. Then there were those that believed they could fly into space and walk on the moon.

So many leaps of faith across history, it is hard to list them all.

I find it most interesting that men can so strongly believe that they can fly that they'd willingly strap themselves to an engine with wood strapped to it to prove it.

I sometimes wonder how people can believe in these other things so much; could enjoin a leap of faith, risking all in many cases. Yet, here we are today where medical mysteries and miracles occur everyday, yet so many will not believe that a man got up and walked away from his tomb, his death.

I don't find it hard to believe at all.

Of course, maybe I have more experience is leaps of faith than others.

No matter. I'll take that leap for all of us. Maybe someone will catch me landing on the otherside and decide it is ideal to make a leap of faith instead of staying tied to the ground?

Hard to know.

What I do know is that, on this day, a man called Jesus of Nazareth arose from the dead, walked among us and then ascended to his father.

If I can believe we walked on the moon, I think I can believe this happened, too.

Summary only...

Terri Schiavo: Why They Will Not Allow Communion

Reading this story from the AP, it struck me how far and ridiculous this whole situation has become.

In essence, the family being strict Roman Catholics and Terri being raised in that religion, they have asked that Terri be allowed to receive the holy communion.

Now, if you're not religious or find religion to be over used, abused or just plain hum bug, you might wonder what all the hoopla is about. Who care's if she does not have communion?

I ask this question, who care's if she does? Why can't she? It's not about what we want, it is about what her beliefs are and it is apparent to me that she was Catholic and part of that Catholicism is to take holy communion and receive the last rights before passing as a last act of contrition and acceptance in joining God.

So, who care's if she has it? Why not?

Well, it turns out that it is a complicated matter.

First, communion is performed by placing a miniscule piecee of bread and a drop of wine on the tongue. In order for communion to be taken, the person receiving it would have to swallow the offerings.

Therein lies the rub. If Terri takes communion and swallows the offering, swallowing is a CONSCIOUS act. The whole reason that Terri has had a feeding tube instead of oral nutrition is that the physicians that oversee her care and Michael Schiavo and the courts have all contended that Terri is in a persistent vegetative state and that her only reactions, movements, responses, are involuntary and unconscious. Medically, it is commonly accepted that one can breath, have heart functions, blink, groan, moan, and even sneeze unconsciously as these are controlled by impulses of the unconscious mind.

However, swallowing requires the control of the mouth, tongue and throat muscles to insure that the food is swallowed and the receiver does not choke.

So, if Terri could receive communion, she would be CONSCIOUSLY responding and it would overturn any claims that she is PVS (persistent vegetative state).

Under no circumstances will Michael Schiavo, the physician's he's hired, his attorney or the courts allow this to occur.

Secondly, it is quite possible that a small amount of food (miniscule, a pinch) and a drop of wine would be no more than the amount of saliva that she has routinely and regularly swallowed on her own. In which case, it might not represent a conscious act of swallowing if she did manage to take the communion.

However, it is most likely that, having taken the communion and not choked on it, Terri's parent's, attornies and other physicians will claim that it is proof that Terri IS CONSCIOUS and attempt to use it as an appeal against the claims otherwise and demand that she be fed orally or have the tube re-inserted until rehabilitation allows her to do so.

In the end, Terri will most likely not receive communion.

"So what?" some of you might be saying.

Well, I hope when it's your time, whatever you believe in, you are able to receive and experience whatever it is that you feel assists you on your spiritual journey and gives you comfort.

Honestly, communion is not about Terri's parents or Michael Schiavo. In the end, as surely this is, this is about Terri, her beliefs and what she would have to speed her along on her journey to wherever she believed in.

Of course, you can argue that she doesn't know any better because she is PVS.

We're talking about the spirit here, not the physical being. If you believe in it, it is a strong entity in your life and matters as much, if not more, than your physical being.

Of course, nobody is asking you to believe. It's not about you. It's about Terri.

So why don't they give her that much at least?

Yes, yes, I know. The "rightwing, Christian Nut-Job" argument.

Why is it that those that have the least hope are always the ones trying to tear down those that have some?

I digress. This isn't about you or your beliefs. This is about Theresa Marie Schindler Schiavo and hers.

After all this, I can't believe anyone would insist on denying her this one thing.

How little and mean spirited we have become in a fight that is over for all intents and purposes. We cannot even spare her this one merciful last act.

Let us hope that our own last moments are more peaceful and that we are allowed our own little idiosyncracies when we pass.

In the meantime, I'll say a little prayer for Terri tonight and those involved on each side. I'm thinking that they all are in needed of a little spiritual intervention about now.

I might even pray for you.

Wouldn't that be a kick in the pants?

Summary only...

Women In Combat, Allahu Akbar and The Magic Bullet

Well, there is always this great debate about women in combat and whether it is appropriate. In this war, while the official line is that no woman is put directly into a "combat position", women are constantly in danger and placed in positions where they have to fight along with the men.

Today's story, from Blackfive has two women MPs along with a few of their fellows, literally kicking some jihadi ass.

24 killed, 6 wounded and 1 live prisoner.

One of the women in question rushed the enemy lines with her squad leader when they fell under ambush.


Sgt Leigh Ann Hester 617th Military Police Kentucky National Guard 

"At first, I shot one guy," Hester said. "I saw him fall."

"I went through my full magazine and went to reload," said Spc. Ashley Pullen.

Source: ABC - Small guard unit fends off dozens of Iraqi insurgents

Blackfive not only has after action reports, but links to VIDEOS because the jihadi bastards were trying to video it for future release to the Al Terror Network.

Unfortunately, they video taped themselves getting killed by a couple of infidel women, a black man, a mexican man and two caucasian men.

You can't see much on the video as it keeps moving, but you do see some of what the after action report indicates. The jihadists were moving up on the trucks. You hear an insane amount of gun fire. You see the sky, the trucks, the date trees and, just as this guy starts yelling "Allahu Akbar" you see the three hummers roll up and then the film goes dead.

Allahu Akbar and the magic bullet. This time, the magic bullets were fired by a group of 7, count them, 7 against 30 to 40, and the 7 included two women and a medic.

The great American Melting Pot.

Winds of Change has video of interviews with some of the soldiers, including Leigh Ann Hester, involved in the attack.

I laugh when people start hedging about women in combat.

They are there.

They are in the shit today.

Respect women in combat because they just might save your life one day.

Go see Blackfive for the whole story with additional information you won't find in the news.

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My Rap To Our HeroesKickin' Jihad Booty

There's some boys and girls in khaki
who think jihadis are so wacky
They stop in Djibouti
On their way to kick some Jihad booty

The jihadis dance around
Like crack head suicide clowns
They think they'll rule the world
But they fight like little girls

They cry to Allah in irreverence
But they soon get deliverance
When the Army of One
Unleash their tanks and guns

When the Marines come to town
You know the jihads' going down
They'll put a cap in their asses
For jihadis there's no passes

When Airforce jets fly over
They can’t find no cover
When the bombs are raining down
It’s last dance you suicide clowns

And the Navy pilots are so fly
The jihadis close their eyes
They drop their guns and run
'Cause they know their day has come

Yes, we're kicking Jihad booty
From Mosul to Ramadi
The last they hear is "WOMP"
When we do the Baghdad stomp

There's some boys and girls in khaki
who think jihadis are so wacky
They're on the planes to Djibouti
Yeah, they're kicking Jihad booty

Kicking Jihad booty
Kicking Jihad booty
K. Henry

Summary only...

Ode To Osama Osama It's Yo' Mama

Osama It's Yo' Mama
- K. Henry

Osama, it's yo' mama
You've been a bad, bad boy
You tried to rule the world
And take away the joy

Now you're hiding in a cave
All you can do is run
Everybody says
You'll meet your end from a gun

Osama, it's yo' mama
I don't think you're coming home
I know the next time that I see you
you'll be as cold as a stone

You pissed off the world
Now they're gunnin' for your ass
Every breath that you take
Well, it just might be your last

Osama, it's yo mama
Listen to yo' mama
Osama, it's yo mama
Listen to yo' mama

Osama, it's yo mama
I should have spanked you more
Then you wouldn't have become
such a jihad whore

And your little friend Zarqawi
He cuts off people's heads
I knew when you were little
Your souls were completely dead

Osama, it's yo mama
You won't see paradise
They only let you in
If you've been very nice

But it's been plain to me
That you've turned into the devil
You are al Shaetan Akbar
Taghut, haram and just plain evil

Osama, it's yo mama
Listen to yo' mama
Osama, it's yo mama
Listen to yo' mama

Summary only...

Terri Schiavo: The living and the dyingSpirit of the Law vs. Letter of the Law

I read several articles in the opinion journal this morning and it brought up some more thoughts on the Terri Schiavo case and how they apply to people like you and me.

Let's face it. At the end of our lives, if we were any kind of person at all, there are going to be some very sad people walking around, wringing their hands and trying to make the right decision for us. Yes, most of us will end up in a position where someone will be making those final decisions for us because most of us will not have the convenience of a quick stroke that takes us out in one fell swoop nor in the slow, conscious dying of a cancer or HIV patient who is able to arrange everything "just so" before they die. Even that last group, at the very end, will most likely be unconscious either from physical or medicinal reasons and unable to make that last directive.

So, it is going to be left up to somebody to make that final decision for us. To unplug or not to unplug? And that decision will include a myriad of "plugs" that they are going to have to deal with.

Most of you reading this are shuddering right now at the very thought of having to think about dying. You may be like me, XX years old, active, feeling pretty young and with it on most days. Heck, you might even BE young. Thinking about dying or death is just so morbid and morose and, well, not something anyone wants to talk about. As a matter of fact, the reason many people are going around saying "enough already about Terri Schiavo" isn't because they have strong beliefs one way or the other or because they really think that the news media is over playing the situation. It's because it is about death and, right next to "sex" and "religion" in this country "death" is just about the scariest topic anyone can think of. It makes people supremely uncomfortable.

It's superstitious really. Somewhere in the back of people's minds they are thinking that they are inviting the grim reaper to become more aware of their own mortality when they are talking about death. That's why so many people put off things like making wills, organizing their death benefits, living wills and directives, etc. We're all going to live, at least for a while longer, most think, so they put it off and putt if off and put if off until one day...

BANG~

They drive head on into the giant oak tree in the middle of town square, right after going to their lawyer to finally finalize that divorce they were going to get the last five years and officially cut their soon to be ex-wife out of the child's life for good or demand that she never seek custody for various reasons, arrange to have their parents designated as guardians should something happen and arrange to have their life insurance policy transferred to a trust fund if their child is under the age of 18.

Well, they meant to do all that, but they never got around to it. Now, guess what? They are in a hospital in North Dakota, on a respirator, in a coma and the only relative for miles around is their son or daughter who is 14 and doesn't know anything better to do than to call the soon to be ex-wife, who is not ex at all.

By most state laws, including the state of Florida, there is a primacy of order fo guardianship or authorized representative for an incapacitated person. Guess who is the first person on the list? You guessed it, the legally married spouse.

No where in the law does it say that the spouse has to prove that you were on good standing the last time you saw each other. All that matters is that they are legally bound to you.

So, if you are one of those people that are eternally "separated" but never get around to the divorce, you are letting yourself in for a big surprise.

Now, let us say that your legal, though unwanted, spouse shows up at the hospital long before any parent or any other potential family member from Chickamagwa, Alabama shows up to take responsibility. Hospitals in an emergency setting will take certain actions within their own scope to provide life saving and life sustaining care. However, the minute someone shows up that even smells like they have some authority in the situation, that person will become the defacto authorized representative and, again, your legal spouse, however unwanted, is it. You have just left your fate in the hands of the person that may hate your guts, or worse, feels nothing for you at all anymore.

What about those relatives from Chickamagwa you say? Can't they protest or something? First of all, they'd have to know you were in the hospital. Secondly, they'd have to get there and ask the court for an injunction against your spouse (sound familiar?) and they'd have to prove that your spouse is not an appropriate guardian. Which, if you live in the state of Florida where they follow the letter of the law and not the spirit of the law, your spouse is legally your guardian. And, guess what some more? Your spouse is also the legal guardian of your child. Period. Unless of course, you got off your fat patutti and actually had papers legally filed and accepted by the court banning them from contact, custody or any type of guardianship. Even then, you are in a coma or quite likely dead. Your spouse can very likely go to court and win custody of the child from anyone that tries to interfere unless your spouse is a complete, disgusting, drunken, drug addicted, slob wanted for murder in three states. Or, they can at least make it very painful for anyone that wants to seek custody of the child.

But, I digress, the point here is that, unless all the appropriate forms have been filed in the court, you are legally married and your spouse is the legal guardian of your child. Even if you write in your will that you want your parents to be the legal guardian of your child, guess what? It doesn't mean a damn thing unless the courts have terminated your spouse's legal rights in court.

So, where am I going with this? Most courts follow the "letter" of the law. This helps them keep all the parts and pieces of the judiciary in place. The letter of the law sometimes does not take the reality of a situation, all of it's nuances, into consideration when it makes a ruling. The letter of the law is a cold and heartless bitch, quite frankly, and many judges tend to go with those types of rulings because, when you follow the letter of the law, it is less likely that your decisions will be overturned. Overturned decisions by a judge is just like bad stock investments for a broker. Bad publicity. It certainly won't get them re-appointed or re-elected.

Thus you have situations where Michael Schiavo, living with another woman and having had children with her over the course of several years, if not nearly a decade, can still be the legal guardian of his legal wife, Terri Schiavo, and make decisions on her behalf.

Back to our mythical example, having crashed into a tree, having their potentially irate spouse on site for decision making and no one able to come to the rescue for at least another eight hours while ma and pa Doe try to arrange a flight or start driving to North Dakota. Odds are, ma and pa Doe aren't even thinking about who gets to make your medical decisions, but are focused on just getting their so it is highly unlikely they even thought about getting an injunction to stop their daughter in law (soon to be ex) from making any decisions. Now the doctor tells your spouse that your brain is filling up with fluid and several organs are beginning to shut down. The doctor recommends either an aggressive treatment, from which you have about a 30% survival chance, or doing nothing but making you comfortable until you stop breathing or they pull the ventilator/respirator hose off of you.

Maybe your soon to be ex is not all that bad a person. Maybe he or she just doesn't know what you'd want because you've been separated for three years and that is a long time between decision making. Of course, along with all the other issues, you never got around to filling out that Durable Medical Power of Attorney and having it notarized. The one that said who you were legally designating as your final decision maker. The one that let you choose some one other than your soon to be ex or your emotionally charged parents.

So, there you are, in a coma or vegatative state and, according the letter of the law, your legal spouse gets to make legal decisions about your healthcare and can legally take custody of your child. They can even legally bar your parents from your sick room and from seeing your child. Then, they can legally decide to pull the plug. Your parents, not being from Pottsdam, North Dakota don't know who to call to stop it. They don't know your attorney because you never told them and your 14 year old doesn't know because they are 14.

Away goes your life support. Away goes your life. Your spouse has custody of the child. Guess what happens next?

The $100k insurance policy that you put your child on as the sole beneficiary? Your spouse now has access to that as well. How can that be you ask? It was in your child's name.

Well, bub, your child is under the age of 18. Their legal guardian is their legal representative. Unless that policy is stipulated to go into a trust fund to be held until the child is 18, the legal guardian can sign for and receive the funds from your insurance policy on your child's behalf. Your child can wake up at 18 and find their entire inheritance pissed out the window like so much bad beer.

You think that being actually divorced and remarried saves you? Think again. In regards to your child, unless the courts have terminated your ex spouses parental rights, they can and will become the child's legal guardian in the event of your death or incapacitation. That's right, your new wife or husband will have little say unless they gird the loins and wade into battle on the child's behalf. Again, even if you specified it twenty times in your will, it wouldn't matter much uness it came down to a real fight and somebody showing that the other person is just plain unfit for parenthood and that is a rare deal indeed.

Why is this possible? Because most states and judges follow the letter of the law, not the spirit. If the spirit of the law was followed, people who have been remarried and sharing a life and child rearing with someone else for ten years would be the automatic primary candidate for guardianship. It just doesn't happen that way.

So, what can we do to avoid some of these things?

First of all, if you have a divorce pending for 5 years, don't you think you should get it done and over with?

Secondly, if you have an issue with the potential for your ex spouse to have custody of your child should you die or become incapacitated, you will have to go to court and have their parental rights terminated right now. Otherwise, even if they only get 15 mins every two weeks, they will be considered prime candidates for guardianship.

Third, if you are single, widowed, divorced, in the process of becomeing divorced or you just don't believe that your spouse has what it takes to hold up at the end and help make appropriate decisions about your care, you can circumvent this little law. You can get and notarize and file with your attorney and your physician and anyone else of interest a Durable Medical Power of Attorney. Don't get this confused with a regular Power of Attorney. Regular Power of Attorney only gives someone the right or ability to take care of your financial situation. Although, you may need this as well. The Durable MEDICAL Power of Attorney, specifies a person that you deem will best represent your interests should you become incapacitated. It doesn't have to be your spouse or your parent. It does have to be someone that is older than 18.

Fourth, and in conjunction with your Durable MEDICAL Power of Attorney, you should complete a form that's called the "living will" or an "advanced directive" that explains exactly what you do or do not want done in certain medical cases. Both of these forms normally only become usable if you are considered incapacitated by one or two physicians.

If you think the examples I gave are way out of line or "hysterical" think again. The court system for many years have seen these kinds of cases go through probate or civil court.

Terri Schiavo is just the latest and the one that garnered the most media attention. Everyday, people are having their lives terminated by someone that most of us would not even consider is an appropriate guardian, but the letter of the law dictates otherwise.

Everyday, people are winning back custody of their children after their spouse is made ill, incapacitated or even dead.

It does happen. The best thing to do to make sure the "spirit" of your demands is carried out per your wishes and not just the "letter" is to complete all of the necessary forms and documentation.

Don't end up like Terri Schiavo and letting the "letter" of the law dictate what hapens to you.

Summary only...

Blogger Sucking Once Again

Update: AS soon as I posted this post, wouldn't it figure that I try comments for the thirtieth time today and ...voila...it works. Still sucks.

Okay, I probably shouldn't write this since I just emailed them about my problem and it is very likely they are going to look this journal up and see that I am writing that blogger sucks. Again.

I know, it's free and we should never complain about free things, but I can't resist. I guess you get what you pay for, huh? Maybe I should move to Typepad or Live Journal or something?

Okay, why am I talking crazy? I'm talking crazy because the $%%&^**@# comments are not working again. I thought it was really cool that they put these new comments together so they would open up just like the halo scan comments and it kept me from changing comments since I was worried about losing some that were in the archives that were very interesting and educational. So, I fought putting halo scan on here even when the rest of the world was abandoning ship. Then, blogger announces the changes to their comments and it seemed like a dream come true. Right up until the 50th time somebody couldn't add a comment.

Hell, I can't add a comment either and I own the damn blog. I have wanted desperately to reply to Donal in yesterday's post comments, but, no can do. Why? I don't know. When I try to bring up an "add comment" window, it acts like it's searching for the comments and it keeps doing it without ever finding them.

You know, I was really excited about this new comment format because it made it easier to replay to people's comments without copying and pasting or having two windows open, but I am starting to have some serious doubts about whether this application is worth the pain.

Maybe I should go to halo scan? Maybe I'll even feel pressured enough to by the haloscan update that allows 3000 characters? You see, the only reason I stuck with blogger comments was the unlimited space because so many people have such great things to say.

Unfortunately, if they can say it at all, then I guess there is no reason to keep them.

I don't know if comments will be fixed by time you read this, but, if not, please send me an email by clicking on the red dispatch box to the left and tell me what you think. Haloscan or give blogger one more chance?

Summary only...

Terri Schiavo: Euthanasia and Government Interference

I have a good friend in the blog world at Blonde Sagacity. Most of the time we agree on many things. This is one issue that we do not agree on. She has posted subsequent comments on allowing Terri to die as was her wish and the inappropriateness of government interference in this process.

She has been getting hate mail, but not from me. And, as my friend is an ultra-conservative who voted for Bush, this is not a "left/right" issue as she points out and it is clear this is the case as the different "left/right" folks have weighed in on the subject and it the support or lack thereof does not separate on this divide.

But, since it continues to be an issue and since Terri Schiavo had her feeding tube removed last friday and is in the process of dying today, I thought I would weigh in more than making comments at Ala's blog.

Ala's last post indicates from Miami Medical University:

Scans have shown extensive damage to Schiavo's cerebral cortex, a part of the brain essential to higher-level functions such as cognition and consciousness. An electroencephalogram, which examined patterns of her brain's electrical activity, documented virtually no normal response.

The scan image can be seen at Miami Medical University

That would seem pretty definitive as a case for "brain dead" although they do go on to say:

The part of the brain responsible for these responses - smiling, crying, chewing, moaning - is still working. But the part of the brain responsible for thinking is not," said Dr. Ghada Ahmed of the Rehabilitation Institute of Chicago. "source

So, she is persistant vegetative state, but some part of her brain still controls the basic functions. At this point, some may wonder what the argument is about. If you only read this information, you would assume that this was it, they were arguing over a vegetative woman who would never get better or be able to improve her situation.

However, as I read all the other information available, I stumbled across this med blog at Code Blue via My Vast Right Wing Conspiracy which makes these comments:

First, I contest the theory that Terri's brain actively continues to degenerate as implied by the above statement. How could they gage serial brain degeneration without serial follow-up? And by what mechanism would her brain CONTINUE to atrophy? Second, Terri's cerebral cortex has not been replaced by fluid. That is inaccurate. The cortex is thinned and the sulci are enlarged. There is a difference.

Third, and most importantly, given the amount of atrophy on this image I disagree with the court's inadequately considered conclusion.

Then they got me thinking about something I also know:

I HAVE SEEN MANY WALKING, TALKING, FAIRLY COHERENT PEOPLE WITH WORSE CEREBRAL/CORTICAL ATROPHY. THEREFORE, THIS IS IN NO WAY PRIMA FACIE EVIDENCE THAT TERRI SCHIAVO'S MENTAL ABILITIES OR/OR CAPABILITIES ARE COMPLETELY ERADICATED. I CANNOT BELIEVE SUCH TESTIMONY HAS BEEN GIVEN ON THE BASIS OF THIS SCAN.

Then they ask the burning question:

Now...why was Terri being shunted in 1996?

Make sure you go over and read the answer, it may surprise you what you really don't know about medical conditions.

Continuing on to things that got me thinking:

IF Terri had hydrocephalus in 1996, she may still have hydrocephalus now; some patients with hydrocephalus respond to shunting with increased mental functioning!

Why was Terri's shunt taken out or no longer in use if she is showing continued hydrocephalus? The reason I picked up on this is because I have to personal interactions with patients suffering from hydrocehpelus.

First, my youngest nephew has hydrocephalus and his shunt drains into his stomach. His shunt became infected and they had to take it out. Shortly after that while waiting for the infection to clear up and a new shunt to be put in place, the hydrocephalus became worse and caused him to have seizures. These seizures caused him to have strictures in his left arm and leg, just like Terri Schiavo. He has had to have serious physical therapy to overcome these problems. It also affected other motor skills like his speech, swallowing, general coordination and balancing. Once the shunt was put back in place, his condition improved immensely. The strictures did not go away completely, but he was able to learn to walk and use his hands and his speech and swallowing was greatly improved.

So, what Code Blue is indicating could be correct. While there maybe atrophy, complete loss of cognitive functioning, not just physical responses, may still be had.

My second incident actually involves my great uncle who has been diagnosed with Parkinsons for sometime. He was exhibiting serious loss of motor skills, cognitive deterioration, speech impairment, loss of balance, he shook all the time. These are all things that typically point to Parkinson's disease. Just last month he had a change in physicians at the nursing home he was staying in and the doctor took a PET scan and CAT scan. Guess what? Hydrocephalus. They immediately shunted him relieving the pressure from his brain and he immediately showed a huge leap forward in cognitive reasoning and motor skills. Unfortunately, he is 76 so his condition is still a concern, but, the point is, there may be other issues at play for Terri Schiavo and I am wondering, along with Code Blue, how this is being passed off as "jello for a brain" or a "bag of water" in her head?

This information along with the emotional and physical responses that Terri's able to give does leave me with many questions about why somebody who was not dying before Friday is suddenly a candidate for Euthanasia.

And, that is what this is about.

Normally, I would be all over the government for making any such law that interferes in the patient's right to determine their own healthcare. And make no mistake about it, if this law is passed, it will be sited from here to eternity in every case where a family member, spouse or other representative contests the withdrawal of treatment on a patient. This could be big time law suits in the medical field for malpractice or dereliction of duty. I don't like it one bit as we have gone to great links to allow patients and their family to be the decision makers on whether to take care to the extreme extent on a dying or brain dead patient who still has heart, lung and other internal organs functioning, but for all intents and purposes have no brain activity.

I still stand by that law that allows patients and their families to make those decisions.

Some might wonder then why I don't support it for the case of Terri Schiavo. Mainly because there was no living will. Living will's were not all the rage in 1990 to be sure, but there is also little collaborating information or witnesses from what I've seen that indicated "she would not want to live like that". Secondly, if you have seen pictures of Terri Schiavo then you will have noted that, at the base of her throat, she has an indention that is indicative of a healed over tracheostomy or hole placed in her airway to help her breath.

At some point, Terri Schiavo was intubated. It may have been at the very beginning when she was first brought to the hospital for care after her "incident". Usually though, you are only intubated for two reasons:

1) Your airway is blocked
2) You are not breathing on your own and they want to put you on a ventilator that will mechanicall breath for you.

If Terri Schiavo was intubated, at what time did this occur? During the first incident and subsequent emergency room visit? Was her airway blocked or was she not breathing on her own?

If her air way was blocked, from what was it blocked? If this was a stroke brought on by bulemia, there would be no blockage. The intubation would have been for mechanical breathing for Terri since she couldn't do it herself. However, if, according to the bone scan, she had skull fractures and extensive injury to the brain area and cortex, she may have been bleeding profusely into her mouth and nose and required intubation to by pass the blockage caused by the bleeding.

Why is this important?

First, if there was such a thing as a directive which she told her husband she would not want to live under certain conditions, the time to have made those decisions would have been shortly after her admittance to the hospital or within a few days or weeks even. At which time, the vent could have been removed and Terri would have died of asphyxiation over fifteen years ago, quietly without anyone questioning what was going on. Her family probably would have even accepted it.

Why did it take Michael Schiavo ten years and a "right to die" lawyer to make that decision?

Secondaly, if it was because of "blockage" due to blood or other trauma, how severe and how did this trauma occur? She fell and hit her head? The damage shown by the bone scan and the subsequent bleed out either into the brain or out of orifices like nose and mouth requireing intubation would have to be some severe damage. None of which is likely to be caused by simply dropping where you stand and hitting your head on the floor. There is not enough force/trauma involved in such an event to cause that type of action.

The other reason I question this, aside from why it took Michael Schiavo to remember she wouldn't have wanted to live like this, is that the decisions to put her in a non-rehabilitation mode and reduce care to sustenance come AFTER large medical malpractice suits were awarded and AFTER Michael Schiavo started his new life with a new person.

I don't begrudge him that except to say that he should have divorced Terri Schiavo and went on with his life, but it seems there was a lot of money involved. Whether the problem was that he wanted it for himself, didn't want to account for where it all went to or thought that her parents were after the money, it doesn't really matter. The point is, Michael Schiavo should not have been, after all this and all this time, however, "legally" bound he may still be to Terri Schiavo, her recognized guardian.

Another issue here is that she was not dying before Friday when they removed her tube. Since she was not dying, whatever her condition, taking her feeding tube from her and causing her to die is euthanasia. I have a serious problem with euthanasia because it implies killing the weakest and most vulnerable amongst us in order to avoid spending money on their care, to relieve the physical and mental pressure of care from a caregiver or simply ridding ourselves of ubermenshen or "undesirables".

That is something that I am against whether that is a societal norm or government imposed.

It is quite another issue if a patient writes down, video tapes or otherwise clearly indicates what treatments they want or do not want to have under what conditions.

One of the commenters at Ala's on a previous post on the subject made the comment:

WOULD YOU WANT TO LIVE LIKE THIS?

My answer is that I want to live as much as possible. I don't know what it would be like to live trapped in your mind unable to communicate with people yet knowing things were going on around me. And, if I was in the actual condition that they say Terri Schaivo is in, I probably wouldn't know or care. So the point of the issue is not whether anyone would want to live like that so much as what position it leaves the family in. Most people who make decisions about "not living like this" are not talking about terminally ill patients who will eventually die, but patients like Terri whose long term care could be financially, emotionally and physically draining on the family or their other loved ones. That is why people make decisions about "not living" like Terri Schiavo. Not because they are dying or brain dead, but because of concerns outside of their medical care.

This is where I start having problems with these decisions and where I start seeing it as "euthanasia" instead of "right to decide on care".

That's also why Michael Schiavo has a "right to die" attorney who would defend Jack Kevorkian in a heartbeat. These folks actually believe that people like Christopher Reed or even less, someone who was simply wheelchair bound with MS, certainly a progressive disease that will one day prove fatal to the patient, but doesn't imply immediately terminally ill, should have the right to decide to terminate themselves (ie, suicide) rather than be a burden or deal with their worsening condition.

Frankly, to the person that asked whether anyone would want to live like that, like Christopher Reed or Terri Schiavo, my answer is unequivocally "YES!" I would want to live however and as long as I could because that is what I am here for. I am here to live and not to die. Dying is the end state.

We don't know what Terri would want and if she were capable of telling the doctor to remove her feeding tube, I would stand by her decision 100%. But she's not and the person that is making those decisions for her, with the assistance of the court, is not an appropriate guardian. He hasn't been for years.

The courts continue to rule in his favor because they are afraid of setting a precedent where the immediate line of recognized care givers/authorized representative is breached and there could be hundreds if not thousands of law suits or doctors who simply will do nothing or do everything to care for the patient in order to avoid this quagmire. I understand that completely, but I do not understand how Michael Schiavo's extra curricular life does not preclude him from that line of decision making.

I understand that there is differing opinions on Terri's condition. Whichever you believe in regards to her brain condition, the most important point was that she was not "dying" before Friday, March 18 and she was not "dead" fifteen years ago as Michael Schiavo implies so much as suffered brain damage.

I don't like the government interference in family/patient decision making since it will open up a whole new can of worms, but I would rather err on the side of caution for this one woman and put the question in jeopardy for all the future ones than to have one woman die because we fear action against this new wave of Euthanasia in this country will bleed over into normal patient/physician decision making process.

Last, I will say as I have said in many posts on this subject. If you don't already, get a living will and spell it out. Then, if you are like the commenter at Ala's who said, "Would you want to live like that?" you can make sure that you don't and that it is in writing, signed by you and notarized so no one can change that decision.

PS...I'm pretty sick of hearing opinion journalist and other so called experts say that dying by starvation and thirst is painless because the patient will lapse into coma before the real deterioration and shut down of the internal organs begins. I'd like to recommend that anyone repeating this fallacy try to go without food and water for a day much less five as has been the case for Terri Schiavo and then tell me how you felt about it. Make it two or three days at least.

PSS...there is no proof that she had bulemia or that it was the cause of her stroke. It was never diagnosed nor placed on an official medical document anywhere. Those are conjectures and rumors.

Summary only...

Here In the Real World

Okay, work has slowed down, but personal things have not so I have been suffering from blog neglect, one of the dreaded blog diseases. The real world has a way of intervening, even with the best of intentions.

For starters, my brother and sister in law insisted that they take me out for a belated birthday dinner. That was really nice of them. They took me to Mimi's Cafe. I highly recommend this restaurant if it's in your area. I had Tuscan chicken sauteed in olive oil with fresh vegetables including zucchini, squash, broccoli, mushrooms, tomatoes and artichoke hearts. Served with rice pilaf and a salad. Very yummy. Add to that a glass of Kendall Jackson Chardonnay and I was in heaven.

The best part was that they didn't sing or do anything stupid announcing to the restaurant that it was my XX birthday. However, my brother and sister were disappointed. They did bring me a piece of chocolate silk pie. Also, very yummy.

We jumped back to my brother's house where I ended up staying the weekend (even though they only live 15 mins from my house). They had several movies and my brother had several new video games he had bought from E-bay.

We watched "The Incredibles" this weekend. I have to say, it was a pretty good movie. I even recommend it for adults. Like Shrek and a few other movies of that sort I could name, some of the content had just enough adult innuendo to keep it interesting.

Then we played "Def Jam Vendetta - Take back New York" or something like that. This is not a video game for children. Not just because of the obvious violence, but because the language is more than "risque". Most of it is humorous, though. One of the characters main lines is, "I'm going to rip out your tongue and lick my a$$ with it."

Ahem...and that was a milder one. Definitely not something to even have kids in a near by room or conscious when playing.

The premise of the game was that you are a street fighter that rescues an underground fight club boss while he is on his way to jail. He's on his way to jail because, in the first Def Jam Vendetta, he holds your girlfriend hostage (the protaganist character is a man) and tries to beat the dog out of you with his coterie of fighters. In this version, you are the "suspect" who helps him get away after ramming the police car. He takes you in and the police try to give a description of the suspect (you). This is where you build your own character with height, weight, body build and basic skills. Additional skills, health, power, clothes and jewelry you have to earn as you fight your way through a rival fight club boss's fighters. You also open up other fighters and venues as you go along. This is for single or multi-player fights (up to four people).

Let me say that we played the $%^&& thing for 10 hours straight on Saturday and I woke up Sunday with a giant blister on my left thumb from the joy stick. I also learned some new and colorful curses which I later repeated while playing the game. My sister in law was worried that we were too "in" to the game when we started referring to the computer characters as "dirty sons of $%^&&" and a few other words as they proceeded to beat my character black and blue. The best part about the game was actually that my brother has a 52" flat screen television and I didn't need my contacts in to play it.

Sunday was for the nephews and niece. We played Aggravation and Operation, which actually should be called "aggravation" or "frustration". Have you ever tried to play "operation"? With a 12 year old and a 11 year old? There are at least two pieces in that game that are rigged not to come out: the charlie horse and the wishbone. And the lord forbid they get pushed back inside the little slots on the "patient". I think I was cursing more during that game (under my breath) then when playing the video game.

You know, kids do say the darnedest things. Friday evening, after we came back from dinner, I was sitting in the recliner waiting for everyone to get "arranged" for the movie and my oldest nephew comes out of the bathroom, walks over to me and says, "Aunt Kat, aunt Kat! Ihavehairsgrowingonmypenis!"

I was watching the news at that point, he was a little over excited and I didn't quite catch it the first time so I foolishly said, "What?" and clicked the mute button.

He repeated just as fast and near unintelligible, "Ihavehairsgrowingonmypenis!" I could only make out the last word "penis". He had a shocked look on his face and seemed a little weirded out. I said, "slow down and tell me that again," as my brother walked into the room.

"I-have-hairs-growing-on-my-penis!"

My bro looked a little red in the face. I think he couldn't believe Nephew #1 was telling me, a girl, about this phenomenom and using the word "penis". Of course, I didn't want to ratchet it up into a full blown "episode" which I could see brewing from bro's face, "Welllll, nephew #1, that is perfectly natural. All boys grow up and get hair there, on their face and under their arms. Do you have hair under your arms?"

"Yes." He replied, chilling out a little.

Me again, "See, that's why you have to take showers regularly and use the deodorant your dad bought you. Otherwise, you'd stink and we couldn't take you out in public. Okay?" Twelve year old boys are notoriously bad with their hygiene and the nephews are no exception. It seems like it's a fight every morning to get them up early enough to get a shower before school and they are ever forgetful about the deodorant.

"Okay." He replied looking quite a bit calmer.

"I think your dad will be explaining more stuff to you about it soon," I told him, giving bro the 'raised eyebrow'.

Bro added, "Yes. They have a health and hygiene class on Monday. We'll be talking after that."

Ahh...just in time to save bro from horribly embarrassing discussions.

"Okay then, give me five and then run downstairs and see where your brother is so we can start this movie." I held out my hand and he smacked it before running downstairs.

Later that same evening, my three year old niece came up for the third time with a different outfit on. She insisted that we look as she twirled around, holding her little dress out. "I cute (koot)," she said and it wasn't a question. I agreed with her that she was very "koot" and she ran back downstairs. My sister in law said that "aunt Becky" (my sister in law's aunt who has no grandchildren yet) had taken her several times and they played "dress up". My little niece is going to be a girly-girl unlike all the other Tom Boy girls in the family.

Then, Sunday while we were watching "Space Cowboys", I heard my sister in law yelling in the bedroom. My niece ran out, slammed the door and yelled, "No!" then came stomping into the living room. Mind you, she is only three, but she is a mouthy little three year old. She can put together some sentences and thoughts. She stomped into the living room and I could hear my sister in law calling the niece's name with that long drawn out last vowel that mother's use when you are in deep dog doo doo.

My niece ignored her and kept stomping into the living room, throwing herself on the couch and crossing her arms. I asked, "What's wrong?" and she replied in her little girl slightly lisping voice, "I'm mad!" and she let out a long suffering sigh that blew her bangs up out of her face.

I, of course, was attempting not to laugh already, "Why are you mad?"

She looked at me with her little lower lip sticking out and said, "Because mommy's going, 'Yarablahblahrahrblahrahr'!" She shouted the last part out sounding just like my sister in law's words she was yelling when filtered out by the walls. She waived her arms around in a pretty good imitation of my sister in law when giving the kids hell. I almost spit out my out my tea it was so funny.

Of course, I said, "What did Mommy say?"

And niece gave me an exasperated look before repeating loudly with the hand movements, "Mommy's going, 'Yarablahblahrahrblahrar'!"

"Ohhhhhh," I nodded my head as if in understanding, "I get it." I wanted to laugh so hard. Even now I have a little grin on my face (which is painful; I'll explain in a minute). So I tol my niece to wait right there and went to get my sister in law and brother. They were coming down the hall anyway looking for my niece. It seems it was time for bed and she was refusing. Hense, the yelling.

"Koot Niece, please explain to mommy why you are angry," and she did, again.

Sister in law did not find it as amusing as me and bro, who, also, nearly spit out his soda.

Kid's do say the darnedest things.


We also played outside since it was so nice. After all that we watched "Space Cowboys". Oldest Nephew insisted he wanted to be an astronaut. I explained he had to apply himself at school and get better grades then go to college for several years. He then informed me that he was not planning to go to college. As soon as school was "over" he was going to work at McDonald's like his mom (who is a Manager there, but still) because it was cool and they had good food.

We all laughed at first, but he was perfectly serious. My brother then proceeded to lecture him about the evils of working at McDonald's the rest of his life, but I don't think the nephew quite understood what he was talking about. Let's hope he grows out of that stage and goes back to wanting to be an astronaut.

He did talk about joining the army some day. He knows his uncle, my other brother, is in the military and he thinks that he is really "cool". We talked about all the cool things that they did in the army like helping people, driving cool vehicles and an abstract discussion about "values" like honor, duty, country, responsibility, etc. I think the responsibility part put him off a little, but he is only twelve. What actually concerned him was that, in the army, you might get shot and killed. That was not cool.

I think the nightly news is a little too realistic for the kids these days. What I find humorous about the people who are insisting on some sort of FEC standards and ratings for television, movies, music and video games is that the nightly news is much more disturbing and is not limited to "after prime time" hours.

But, I digress. Let me explain the part of the last few days that has been the most "fun": Monday. Last week, I lost a filling out of a molar. The filling had been there for almost 20 years. It came out while I was eating a burger for lunch at work. What hurt the most right that second was biting down on the stupid filling. So, I made an appointment to see the dentist. Not last week of course because I had to make my ill fated trip to Indianapolis so I put it off for a week. it wasn't really hurting except if I drank cold water or ate on that side, so I figured I could make it.

Wrong. Very wrong. Friday morning it was hurting a little down in the gum. You know, like when you accidenty bite on a potato chip the wrong way and it stabs you in the gum? That's what it felt like. Not horrible, bearable, but still a pain in the rump.

In December, a piece of that tooth had broken off and I had the dentist grind it down a bit, but he told me I had to come back and get the tooth "rebuilt". Unfortunately, it was Christmas time, I was way too busy and I did not want to spend the holiday unable to enjoy Christmas dinner and all the good snacks we would have so I put it off. And off. And off. Until it completely fell apart.

So, I make my appointment with my dentist. You probably know about him. I believe he learned his trade during the last Inquisition. Yours, too? You ever had your teeth x-rayed? If they are just doing one part, they put this hulking square, stiff plastic "film" board in your mouth and tell you to bite down on it. It's square and thin so, of course, the corners dig into the the bottom and roof of your mouth. They insist that you bite down hard to hold it in place.

The assistant puts this metal mouth stretcher in your mouth that holds it open at an improbable width before he, the dentist, begins poking at your tooth and gums with a sharp pointy object followed shortly by the inevitable question that you are supposed to answer, "So, are you still working at the same company?" (The last time I was in we had a short conversation while the assistant was developing the x-rays).

I just want to know why any dentist thinks you can really answer these questions, leaned back in the torture chair with a spot light in your face, your mouth held open to five inches beyond its normal state and a sharp pointy object in your mouth. I mean, you can't move your tongue or lips enough to articulate and you sure as hell don't want to nod or shake your head in reply. I just gave him a look and grunted. He seemed to come back to his senses, "Oh, yes, right." He proceeded to finish poking around, explaining what he saw, "Your teeth are in really good shape except this one. You have a giant cavity that goes all the way down to the root which is exposed. The filling must have been hiding it on the last x-ray. I'm afraid there is nothing I can do. You'll have to go to the oral surgeon and get it extracted."

My eyes probably got as big as the spot light over me. He wanted me to go see the great great grand son of the Marquis de Sade. Today. Immediately if they could squeeze me in. Okay, not really the Marquis de Sade, but there has to be something seriously sadistic about people who go into oral surgery. I mean, what else can explain a guy that offers you laughing gas just before he rips out your tooth which will start giving you the most excrutiating pain you've every felt in your life in about an hour or so when the novacaine or lidocaine wears off?

I mean, that is just plain evil, isn't it?

The worst part, after the assistant shoots me up and I'm drooling buckets of saliva down my chin, the doctor comes in and he is an extremely good looking single man. His build was a little on the square side with a little bit of chunk going on, but still very good looking. He introduces himself and shakes my hand. And, just like the other dentist, he starts in his inquisition expecting answers: does it hurt all the time? No? When I drink cold water or hot beverages? Was I numb enough yet? I should feel numbness all the way to the middle of my bottom lip, is it numb? No? Tingling? Okay then, we'll give you one more shot.

In which case, he sticks the needle in a couple of times. On the second round, he stuck me somewhere and I had a feeling I had never had before. Get your minds out of the gutter. He called it a "zinger". He stabbed me in a nerve and I just about came out of the chair while he still had the needle in my face. It felt like somebody had given me an electrical shock. Not the friction kind you get when you don't pick up your feet, but like I was connected to a car battery. It hurt.

Finally, we get down to business. He has me bite down on a thick rubber place holder that is, again, many inches wider than my normal size. He asks me once again if I want laughing gas or to be knocked out. I hate that feeling so I avoid it if at all possible. I much rather be aware. He then proceeds to stick an ice pick looking tool in my face and taps it ever so gentley (not that gentle really) to break the tooth apart for easier extraction. Next come the forceps. He grabs the tooth and warns me that I will feel some pulling and shoulr resist moving with it as much as possible. I can hear the crackling and grinding of the tooth as he begins to rip it out of my mouth.

At this point, I am wondering why I didn't at least ask for an Ativan or maybe I should have asked to be knocked out, but, honestly, it didn't hurt at that point so there was no reason to be knocked out. It was more about the anxiety level until it's done.

The forceps go in several times and come back out with pieces of tooth which the assitant takes quickly in the hand that is not holding the suction device for the physician. She had a big piece of guaze ready for it. The doctor moves so fast, I can't even see what it looks like.

He asks for another sharp pointy object and digs around looking for additional pieces of tooth. Now, I can hear him scraping the bone. I can't feel it, yet, but I know I will later.

Fortunately, the Marquis de Sade was finished relatively quickly. All told, after sitting in the lobby for over 2 hours hoping to be "fit in", dreading it, and sitting in the chair for 15 minutes until he walks in, stressing out a little more only to have him complete his torture in less tan 5 minutes.

I now have a big hole in my teether. The doctor gave me some nice drugs which made me quite sleepy. I finally woke up again because the pain was coming back and it was time to take another pain pill. In which case, I couldn't go back to sleep immediately so here I am writing a little about the last few days.

If there are any obvious and egregious spelling or grammar. As a matter of fact, I feel myself nodding off at the keyboard. The pain meds have kicked in and it's time to say goodbye to all my firends.

That has been my last three days in the real world.

Kids say the darndest things.

Ilearned several new curse words and phrases from a video game.

The Spanish Inquisition Revisited.

Darvoset kicking in and I just woke up with a jerk, my forehead about two inches from the keyboard.

time for sleep.

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Postprandial St. Patrick's DayThe World Of Idiots

I saw the word "postprandial" in a book I was reading and, having never read, written or heard anyone use this word before, I had to look it up.

It means a walk or stroll after a meal, particularly dinner (as in the British "dinner" which is often a late lunch or lite meal before supper).

WOW! I learned a new word yesterday and had to share with the world.

So, my St Patrick's Day postprandial is a virtual walk.

First, let me say that I went to an Irish pub last night and had corn beef and cabbage with boiled potatoes and soda bread. It was quite yummy. They had a singer, but I was bummed to find that he was your average guy with a guitar doing pick up songs of whatever floated his boat instead of Irish limericks. I missed that guy by about an hour. I must say though, that he was a decent guitarist and singer with his accoustic guitar and some pretty big amps.

The crowd was a mix of old and young so I didn't feel too out of place. One of the patrons was wearing a kilt and he looked pretty good in it. I have always been a sucker for a man in a kilt. It does something for the legs. Now I know why men always dig on women in skirts. Of course, this man also had a very long and interesting dirk.

One of the patrons gave me his big, gaudy plastic shamrock necklace that said "bud light" on it.

I discovered that the pub has "limerick" night on Fridays and my friend indicated it is very fun so I will probably scoot over there this evening and check it out. Saturdays are karaoke (that should be interesting) and Wednesdays are "open mic" which I plan to attend next Wednesday just to see what the local talent brews up. All in all, a decent night.

I haven't posted much lately due to work, but I have been paying attention to events so I thought, in my virtual postprandial I'd just make a few comments:

Ali at Free Iraqi talks about the Basra residents taking issue with the Sadrist and other Shia radicals that seemed to have infiltrated the area and are trying to implement their own form of Shari'a. The Basra Students are having none of it.

He also has several posts on the difference between wahabism and the Muslim Brotherhood and how they came to join forces. Great reading if you're interested.

More on the Iraqi citizens getting pissed about terrorists from Hammoraibi.

Now for the idiots and bizarreness of the world.

I don't know about you, but I have this immense feeling that there are more important things to talk about in congress than the Use of Steroids in Baseball. Maybe it's just me. I'm not that big of a baseball fan and I figure with steroid over use being the leading cause of the high "per capita" incidents of disabled children and all manner of cancer in professional athletic circles, if they aren't smart enough to figure out that routine steroid use can be a disaster, I don't really care. I know. There's something about the potential for our teenagers to look up to them and possibly do the same.

My take? If it's that important, stop talking and make a law that says professional athletes who test positive for steroids and other controlled substances without having a commiserate prescription should be banned from their sports specialty or all professional sports for life. Secondly, talk to your kids that drugs are bad and, if they don't listen, you didn't use the belt enough.

Oops! Did I say that? Next thing some other idiot of the world will waltz in here and claim I'm advocating child beating. Oh, well, can't win them all.

Speaking of idiots, how about that Hugo Chavez. Somebody should remind him that the Iraq war was for oil and, if we weren't going to let some moronic dictator on the other side of the ocean keep threatening us (I meant Saddam, not Chirac) and making noises about causing an energy crisis in the US, that we aren't going to play tiddle-winks with a guy in our back yard. Maybe we need to turn our eyes back to our own hemsiphere? I understand there are a few countries (Cuba, Venezuela, etc) that need liberation from latin wannabe Perone's.

Somebody wanna tell this moron that socialist crap economics don't work, ever, and delusions of grandeur have gotten American enemies' asses kicked from one end of the globe to another? I know this sounds like American Hegemon or something, but these little tin pot dictators are freaking annoying. via Anti-Idiotarian Rottweiller

Bashir Asad of Syria. What is there to say about this guy? First he helps us with terrorist information (yes, it was good for him because the islamic fascists want his country as well), then he throws his support behind Saddam in the lead up to the war, throws dissidents in jail and badly miscalculates what happens when you blow up he leader of the opposition in Lebanon. Don't forget harboring Saddamite loyalists, millions of dollars in funds, contributes to the black market for Iraqi oil and fuel, acts as a way point for terrorists coming in from around Iraq; makes pal's with Iran and the French.

Can anyone say, "idiot"?

Martha Stewart goes to jail for "tellig a lie" to the feds, but Robert Blake gets a pass for arranging to have his wife murdered?

Anyone believe that? That is bogus.

Scott Peterson on the other hand got his just deserts being sentenced to death. There is some justice, but far and few between.

Just because Blake's wife was not a "sympathetic" victim, people let him walk. No one was going to let Peterson walk. Laci was the epitome of the nice girl while Blake's wife was trailer trash and a few other words thrown in according to the defense.

You know what's great? The whole middle east is now "unstable" and I'm digging it, even with these outragous oil prices.

Any other stupid people we should be quoting?

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Happy St. Patrick's Day! The Irishness of Me

I'm BAAAACCCKKK!!! Just in time to enjoy some St. Patrick's Fun!


Okay...I'm not the most Irish person that I know. I haven't joined the Hibernia Society, though I've thought about it. It's just, I've never been much of a joiner. But, I think I can claim some Irishness.

For starters, today is my Birthday. Yep, I was born very early in the morning on St. Patrick's day.

Secondly, my grandmother's grandmother (my great-great grandmother) on my Dad's side, Mary Murphy, came from Munster, Ireland in 1898 to America with her two sisters Kitty and Katherine. All three were lately widowed and decided to come to America to seek their fortunes. Kitty married a Penderghast in Kansas City; Katherine a Snyder and Mary married Own Mae Howard, a Cherokee Indian from Tennessee. They had seven sons, the youngest was my great grandfather.

Thirdly, my grandfather's grandmother was French-Irish who married the son of a couple who came to America from Lichtenstein in 1851 having had their name Anglo-sized from Heindrick in the way that many immigrants did to "fit in" or simply because the clerk didn't know how to spell it.

We are the story of the post revolution immigration to America.

I always loved everything Irish from the campy to the realistic. My dream vacation would be to spend a week or two in Ireland just hiking the country side and looking at the greenness of the land.

My favorite Irish Songs are:

Danny Boy which was actually written by an Englishman to the tune of an Irish Aire. On my 26th birthday, not long ago (ahem), four of my friends from Philadelphia took me to see The Lord of the Dance with Michael Flaherty as the lead dancer. I think it was the best time of my life. I remember wanting to get up on the stage and dance with them even if I looked far less graceful than they. It was that fantastic and that inspiring.

After the musical, my friends decided that we would go to an Irish pub in town. Actually, two of my friends decided that we would. My third friend, Wendy (the second Wendy I knew) was from Britain. At first, she refused to go. The Irish were all a bunch of terrorist rebels who, if not directly involved were implicitly involved in the bombings by the IRA in England. Further, she said the Irish Pubs in the United States filtered money to the terrorists through "charity" groups and other aid programs (sound familiar?). Of course, by then, Clinton had worked with Blair to move towards peace at least with the Sinn Fein. Still, my friend was unhappy, but, since it was my birthday she consented to go, but insisted that she would throw up if they sang Danny Boy.

They, the live band, sang it three times and it was played at least two others by the DJ. We, my other friends and I, sang it as loud as possible. My friend Tricia (short for Patricia) was black haired Irish with blue eyes and I am red haired (well, with a little grey these days) and green eyed. British friend was red haired and blue eyed (her ancestors being protestant Irish who had moved to Liverpool in the 19th century) and then, Italian friend, brown hair and brown eyes. We were the terror of the bar.

The lines to get in were long and you had to stand four deep at the bar trying to get a drink. The bar tender/bar owner was about 50 something and saw us waiting behind the hordes of men. He told them briskly to "get the hell out of the way and let the ladies get up to the bar". The men in front of us were mostly in their 20's and were quite stunned I think. At first, they hesitated, then the bar tender/bar owner's father (we later found out) with a mane of white hair and a beer in his hand who was sitting at the bar in front of them gave the one nearest him a little shove and asked the boys where their manners were. They finally started moving out of our way. We were, of course, a little apologetic considering how long they had to have been standing their to get a chance to get a beer.

The old man of the bar told us to stop apologizine and, since the young men in question had hesitated so long, they could buy us our first round of drinks. He said it looking right at them, challenging them to say "no" while the bar tender and few people I figure to have been regulars snickered loudly. We had no idea yet about the old man's connection to the bar. The bar tender asked us what it would be and we all dutifully ordered beer and a shot of Irish Whiskey. Jamison I think. He set them up, ignoring the rest of the crowd and then looked straight at the boys and told them, "that will be 28.50."

We were digging in our pockets frantically to pay. We were a little embarrassed. The bar tender refused to take our money and looked at the boys again, "28.50, boy-o's and hurry it up, I've got other patrons to serve." I had a feeling that he wouldn't have served them again the rest of the night if they didn't pay.

We thanked the boys profusely, still giving them apologetic looks, but, inwardly, I think we were all flying high. That had to be one of the coolest things that ever happened to us. My Irish friend Tricia thanked the bar tender and the old man. The old man asked if we were Irish and Tricia explained who was who, introducing us (the boys had walked off with their beer by then). She told him it was my birthday. He called the bar tender over and told him. They asked for my driver's license. After looking it over for a few seconds, he held it up and shouted to the bar, "It's Kat---- Birthday! Everyone, wish her a happy birthday!" and they all shouted, "Happy Birthday!" He then clipped my driver's license on a string over the bar and told us our drinks were now free on the house.

We chatted with the old man for awhile. He explained the bar belonged to his son. They were serving authentic corned beef and cabbage later so we should stick around, plus the three bands they had hired to come in.

The band heard it was my birthday and insisted that I choose a song to play. By then I'd had a couple shots of whiskey and was feeling my Cheerios so I told them to play Danny Boy for me and dedicate to my friend Wendy. They played the song and my friend rolled her eyes in disgust, but we were all pretty drunk by then so me and Tricia and Debbie put our arms around Wendy (she in the middle) and each other and began singing at the top of our lungs with the entire pub joining in. We swayed back and forth as we sang it. By the third round of the song, Wendy finally gave in and started singing with us.

Of course, later, when she was sober, she told us never to expect her to do that again.

You can guess what we did the next year on my birthday.

I love this song, too,Come Out Ye Black and Tans which tells the story of an angry Irish Rebel shouting for the British Constables to, dressed in khaki and black beret, to come out and fight him like a man instead of kncoking down their doors in the middle of the night.

This is one of my favorites, Whiskey in the Jar. I have it on CD by Metallica (a remake of course). My brother burned the disc for me and for a long time, I had no idea who made this version, but it now plays on a regular basis in my truck when I am feeling a little reckless and in the need for speed. This song is about an Irish bandit and his unfortunately, faithless love Molly.

If you spend time listening to Irish songs, apparently, most girls named Molly were faithless loves and girls named Kathleen or similar were pure as the driven snow.

Lastly, from the Chieftans "Long Black Veil" album, a remake of The Foggy Dew which tells the story of the Easter Rebellion of 1916. I always loved this song and the Chieftan's remake is dark and broody, like the Irish rebels themselves. I couldn't find an MP3 to go with it, so the midi will have to do along with the all the verses.

'Twas down the glen one Easter morn
To a city fair rode I.
When armed line of marching men
In squadrons passed me by.
No pipes did hum, no battle drum
Did sound its loud tattoo
But the Angelus bell o'er the Liffey's swell
Rang out in the foggy dew.

Right proudly high over Dublin town
They hung out a flag of war.
'Twas better to die 'neath an Irish sky
Than at Suvla or Sud el Bar.
And from the plains of Royal Meath
Strong men came hurrying through;
While Brittania's huns with their great big guns
Sailed in through the foggy dew.

O' the night fell black and the rifles' crack
Made "Perfidious Abion" reel
'Mid the leaden rail, seven tongues of flame
Did shine o'er the lines of steel.
By each shining blade a prayer was siad
That to Ireland her sons be true,
And when morning broke still the war flag shook
Out its fold in the foggy dew

'Twas England bade our wild geese go
That small nations might be free.
But their lonely graves are by Suvla's waves
On the fringe of the gray North Sea.
But had they died by Pearse's side
Or fought with Cathal Brugha,
Their names we'd keep where the Fenians sleep
'Neath the shroud of the foggy dew.

The bravest fell, and the solemn bell
Rang mournfully and clear
For those who died that Watertide
In the springing of the year.
And the world did gaze with deep amaze
At those fearless men, but few
Who bore the fight that freedom's light
Might shine through the foggy dew.

Ah, back through the glen I rode again
and my heart with grief was sore
For I parted then with valiant men
whom I never shall see more.
But to and fro in my dreams I go and
I'd kneel and pray for you,
For slavery fled, O glorious dead, when
you fell in the foggy dew.

Other Irish Songs here and here

I also love the old Irish tales of the heroes like Cu Chulain the hound of Chulain who received his name after killing his master's hound and, the master asking who would now guard his hall, the boy, then known as Setente said, "I will." From there he became a legendary warrior and hero, the Hound of Chulain.

Of course, no one's Irish legends education is complete without the stories of Fionn Mac Cumhal, also known as Finn McCool.

For other Irish legends and myths go here.

That's it for the Irishness of me. Now I'm off to listen to Irish music and drink some beer.

Summary only...