Love

A baby is born with a need to be loved - and never outgrows it.

~Frank A. Clark~

I think about love all the time.  I used to wonder if it was real and why it seemed that I was the only one in the entire world who didn’t give or receive it.  Then I grew up – and became a Mom.

The first time that I knew for sure that love was real was when I became a Mom.  As soon as the nurse put my brand new baby boy in my arms and I looked at him, my heart melted.  It was definitely love at first sight and it’s only grown stronger through the years.  It also taught me that I can love – just because it doesn’t feel like I think it should – or THOUGHT it should – it’s still love.  Having a second son two years later taught me that there's no limit on the amount of love a person can give.

I met a lady many years ago who made one random comment that changed my opinion about love forever.  I’m sure she’s long dead by now but I’ve never forgotten her or what she taught me.  I don’t know what we know or learn after we die, but I hope she knows what a difference she made to me.  She taught me that love DOES exist.

This lady and her husband were elderly and lived in a small, modest home. It wasn’t the tidiest place I’ve ever been in but I wouldn’t call it “dirty”.  I remember the husband coming in, tracking dirt from his boots all over the floor.  He sat at the small kitchen table where he proceeded to make a mess of some kind on the floor (sorry I don’t remember what he did).  Then he went back outside.  The wife commented that her work was never done and added these words that I’ll never forget:  “Oh well, it makes him happy so I don’t mind”.  She picked up the broom and began sweeping up his mess.

All I could think was “that’s love”.  It didn’t matter that it was something as insignificant as tracking in dirt.  It was the idea that she never told him and, I suspect, it never occurred to him.  No matter how she felt, his happiness was most important to her.  I wondered if he knew how much he was loved and if he loved her as much.  What did he do for her that she never knew about?

I learned that day that love – real and true love – is unselfish.  I’m not talking about the romantic kind of love that men and women have for each other.  No, it’s all love (including the romantic kind) – parents and children, brothers and sisters, cousins and best friends – anyone.

How lucky I am that I learned that lesson so early in life.

Mr Obama, this is for you

"I dream of giving birth to a child who will ask, 'Mother, what was war?'"

~Eve Merriam~

In the United States, we have two special days to honor and remember our military.  Why two? you might ask.  I say "why JUST two?"  Shouldn't our military be honored and remembered every day?  Of course!  But our two have specific goals.

Memorial Day is celebrated the last Monday in May and was created to honor and remember our war dead - those brave men and women who gave their lives for our country.  Veteran's Day is celebrated on November 11 year and is meant to honor our Veterans - those who served our country whether in war or time of peace.  Really, it shouldn't be that hard to tell the difference.  There's really only one thing you need to know in order to tell the difference: memorial - remembrance.

Does it sound like I'm talking to a bunch of elementary school children?  GOOD!  I'm hoping our president will see this.  Based on his latest campaign ad, he certainly needs to be told.  But don't take my word for it - watch the YouTube video of the ad and decide for yourself.  It's at the end.

Obama's Campaign Ad

What's Wrong With Being Just An American?

I was born an American; I will live an American; I shall die an American.
~Daniel Webster~

Am I the only person who’s offended by the term “African American”? It’s not the ‘African’ part that offends me; rather it’s the part that says being just ‘American’ isn’t good enough. Don’t get me wrong, I support the right of every individual to honor his or her heritage, but who seriously believes that all black Americans descend from African ancestors? That’s like saying all fair-haired, fair-skinned white Americans descended from Scandinavia or those with darker hair and complexions might be from Spain, Italy or Greece. Really? C’mon, peeps, get real.

My next-door neighbor is black but he’ll put you in your place in a heartbeat if you call him ‘African American’. His ancestors were Haitian and he’s offended that he’s considered African because of the color of his skin. I used to work with a lady who would get just as fired up for the same reason. Her heritage was Jamaican. I heard Whoopie Goldberg say one time when she was hosting some kind of award show that she didn’t like being called ‘African American’. According to Whoopie, she’d never even been to Africa nor had anyone in her family that she knew about.

I suppose some will say that it’s a race issue but it isn’t to me. It’s a HERITAGE issue and, frankly, if you’re an American, then you’re American. Period. Not ‘something-American’ - American. Be proud of the heritage you got from your ancestors but be also proud of your heritage as an American. This is a great country and deserves our pride and respect. As countries of the world go, we’re still relatively young yet we’ve achieved so much in a mere 400 years. Besides, where else in the entire world can you become one just by nature of your citizenship – natural or naturalized makes no difference.

My ancestors came from the British Isles – England, Scotland and Ireland – but I don’t refer to myself as ‘British American’ or ‘Scotch American’ or ‘Irish American’. They settled in Virginia and North Carolina. Wanna guess which side they fought on during the Civil War? Should I call myself a “Confederate American”? It is, after all, my heritage and I can be just as proud of mine as anyone else. I have no doubt that I’d be called racist if I chose to use that label to identify myself.

Or maybe it IS a race issue. Maybe those who add the “African” label to their ethnicity (nativity?) are attempting to remind us that slaves were brought here from Africa. If so, that’s a shame. Slavery is part of our history and should not be forgotten but it also shouldn't be used as a means to hang on to hatred. Every black American isn’t a descendant of slaves any more than every white American is descended from someone who owned them.

So, why is this one classification so accepted in the US? I limit this to the US because, frankly, I’ve never heard of ‘African Canadian’ or ‘African Mexican’ or ‘African German’ or Greek or French or Italian or Russian or any other nationality. Why does this seem to just happen in the US? Nevermind that, why does it happen at all???? Can’t we just be AMERICANS who are proud of our individual heritages? Works for me!

To Honor and Remember

Only two defining forces have ever died for you: Jesus Christ and the American soldier – one died for your soul and the other died for your freedom.

Yesterday, I wrote about honoring and remembering police officers who were killed in the line of duty. How could I not do likewise for our men and women of our Armed Forces? I had something different in mind for today but I’ll save that for tomorrow. Throughout our history, troops have given their lives so that we may be free. Colonial militia fought for our liberty and their descendants have been fighting to keep it ever since. So many men – and recently, women – have died to protect us and our freedoms. How can we NOT honor them?

We’ve all seen the photos of how hard it is for our troops – sleeping when and where they can, wearing hot uniforms and carrying heavy equipment while sweltering in hundred plus degree heat, living in cramped quarters on ships and submarines. Some of them lose limbs or even their lives. They all know the risks but still they go and consider it an honor to serve their country. When Whitney Houston died, the governor of New Jersey wanted to fly the flags at half-mast. Why isn’t that done for every single service person who is killed “over there” – wherever “over there” may be at the time?

During the Viet Nam era, patriotism in this country reached a low that I think we’d never experienced before. Our vets returned from ‘Nam to a disrespecting country, no help for their war-related issues and illnesses and unemployment. As far as I can remember, patriotism remained low until the terrorist attacks of 9/11. When that happened, we all got patriotic again. There are people who don’t support the war effort but, to my knowledge, most all support our troops.

I not only support our troops, I appreciate them and what they sacrifice for our freedoms. A mere "thank you" hardly seems sufficient but it's all they want. Next time you see a member of our military make sure you let them know you appreciate them.

Semper fi (oh, did I mention that the dear hubby is a former Marine?)

My Passions

"It is not how these officers died that made them heroes, it is how they lived."
~Vivian Eney Cross, Survivor~

I have two major passions in life – other than my family, of course. They are my biggest passion but I do have other interests. One of those passions is remembering and honoring law enforcement officers who have been killed in the line of duty. Why am I so passionate about this? Oh let me count the ways...

I had only been married a couple of months when my husband dropped the bombshell that he wanted to be a cop. I thought he was nuts – and told him so – but I supported him anyway. Once he graduated the academy and was a real, honest to goodness law enforcement officer (he began as a Park Ranger) I thought it was pretty cool. Then he transferred and became a “real” cop. Oh, the Park Ranger was a “real” cop too - fully sworn and with full arrest powers - but there was just something, I dunno – bigger? – about being a city police officer. I don’t know that I ever said it out loud, but I was kind of proud to be a cop’s wife. It seemed that we had some kind of prestige or higher social standard or some kind of nonsense like that. This opinion was only mine, of course. Hubby dear was much more grounded than I and never considered himself better or more important than anyone else. Once the romanticism of the job subsided and reality set in (I think it only took about a year after he became a city cop), I learned that being a cop’s wife came with a price. You spend entirely too much time alone and when you have kids, you pretty much have all the disadvantages of a single parent.

After about 5 years, our department lost an officer in the line of duty - our first experience with this sad happening. He was young, single and the son of a preacher. I didn’t know him personally but it affected me in a way that I can’t begin to explain. I didn’t understand at the time why it should have hit me so hard. This young man – a hero he was called by his department – stayed on my mind for months after his death. It was another four years before we lost another officer and less than two weeks after that, another. This time it was someone I’d met. The first officer left a wife pregnant with their first child. The second was divorced with school-aged children. When I walked up to his casket and looked down on him, it hit me like a ton of bricks – that could be my husband! No, they didn’t look anything alike but they were about the same age and worked together. Through the years, we lost more officers and I learned that it never gets easier. Each time I saw the widows with their children I knew that there, but for the grace of God, go I.

With each passing year, I became more and more aware of how blessed we were. I had so much respect for the families of officers who made the supreme sacrifice and I also had empathy for the wives (and mothers). My heart broke for the children who would grow up with only one parent. I wanted to do something but what? Then, in 2000, my life changed forever. I discovered National Police Week.

That first time was a fluke, really. I had to be in Fairfax, VA for a meeting and told an internet friend that since I was so close, I’d come into DC for the ceremony happening that evening. I thought that I’d get to experience something kinda cool and meet in person the lady I’d talked to online for over a year. The Good Lord definitely knows how to choose His timing. I got a double whammy – two emotion packed ceremonies at once since one had been postponed the night before due to the weather.

Several other things happened within the next few days that made my first Police Week something to be reckoned with but I’ll go into all of that at another time. Suffice it to say that my first Police Week experience changed my life. I’ve not missed one since and as long as I’m able to make the trip, I never will.

The names of over 19,000 fallen officers are engraved on the National Law Enforcement Officer’s Memorial (www.nleomf.com) in Washington DC. Each year during Police Week, the names of the previous year’s fallen officers are added. I am there every year to honor and remember those officers - and to support their survivors.

Oh yeah – seven years ago, my husband retired. We made it through to the other side. I’d like to say we were lucky but, truly, luck has nothing to do with it.

lt's only my opinion

What can I say?  I just LOVE giving my opinion on anything and everything so creating a blog just seemed the logical thing to do.  You see, people get tired of listening to me talk like I know everything about everything all the time so I had to find a new audience.  What can I say?  I'm nothing if not resilient.

Keep in mind - unless otherwise stated, it's my opinion and not actually fact.  I don't like using facts because someone will invariably ask me to prove it.  Besides, my opinion is so much better than facts because I always, 100% of the time, agree with them.

Facts can be manipulated but not my opinion.  Oh, they can change from time to time - and have on many occasions - but no one can manipulate my opinion.  At least no one I'll admit.  And, too, opinions are never wrong.  They're just opinions.

So, ready or not, here I come.