In sixteen days America will choose a new leader.
We need a transformer, not a maverick.
Barack Obama can bring real change to America. The senator from Illinois will certainly have my vote come November 4.
Yesterday, I, along with 75,000 fellow Kansas Citians, stood in front of the Liberty Memorial to hear this intelligent visionary articulate his plan to TRANSFORM America's economy, healthcare and educational systems, global standing, and the environment of which we all inhabit.
He is change I can believe in. In my forty-three years I have experienced moments of eye-watering intensity: the birth of my three children (happy tears). Watching the towers fall that horrible day in September (tears of horror), Bush 41's Gulf War declaration (tears of fear). Yesterday's AMAZING gathering of old and young, black and white, a diverse demographic waving its arms in the air and applauding the dynamic words of the man we're hoping can, indeed, turn this country around.
Those were tears of pride.
God Bless Barack Obama.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Weird day
What an odd, odd day.
First, drove to school in a torrential downpour. Lots of water on the interstate. Feared I would die. Did not die. (Fortunately.) Got to school a wee bit early. Forgot magical plastic card that allows me entrance into the building. Waited five minutes for a colleague to show. Followed him in. Managed to get poorly constructed but pretty umbrella through the door but dropped important papers. Muddy wet.
Nice.
Got to classroom but forgot key (attached to magical plastic entry card); had to hunt down a custodian to gain entrance to my own classroom. While waiting, I pass a woman in the wall who looks vaguely familiar, like I knew her once, maybe ten years ago. "Kathleen," she asks. "Is that you?" Why yes, yes it is, I respond, looking at her like a dog might look in the direction of an odd sound. "It's Betsy," she tells me, her Southern accent reminding me of our collegiate relationship. As I am thinking, Why do you look so much older than you should? the answer is provided. "I'm a breast cancer survivor," she says, smiling shyly. She points to her short, curly hair. (Didn't it used to be a different color?). She doesn't explain the wrinkles and tired face. Doesn't have to. Stupid cancer. Stupid, stupid, stupid cancer. Robs a person of vitality and youth. "So that's why you weren't subbing last year," I say. I reach to hug her. "I'm so glad you're well." Betsy, dear, dear Betsy, was my longterm sub the spring my dad was dying from lung cancer. How could any of us have known that she'd be fighting for her own life just a few months later?
I walk back to my classroom, thinking about my dead father.
While the rain beats a steady thumpthumpthump, I set about getting organized. Suddenly, I feel ill. Lower unit failure! Ugh. Stomach cramps. Bowel issues. Bathroom emergency. I either have an intestinal worm or should never eat chili again. Now I'm depressed and sick.
Homeroom children file in. I sell precisely three suckers. Not good for the fundraising effort. (We're raising money to support our team account. For field trips and ice cream socials, that sort of thing.) Do agenda checks but only three students have managed to write in their boardwork.
First hour begins. Time to collect homework. Five students have done so.
Small lecture begins. "If you're going to come to school, then doesn't it make sense to do the work? It's a simple worksheet, really, about setting. You know, time and place. (Blank looks.)
Where was 'The Highwayman' set? (Answer: Texas (wrong). New York (wrong). England? Dingdingding.)
The phone rings in my classroom. I am annoyed. Why on earth does the school allow incoming calls when I am teaching? Oh, wait .... It's the school nurse at my daughter's high school. Your daughter is ill, she tells me. Migraine. Visual disturbances. You need to come get her, please.
In addition to managing a class of 26 12-year-olds, I now must contact the school secretary to find out What to Do Next. It is a crappy part of the job, needing to leave suddenly. Just can't get up, grab the purse, and head out. You've got to find someone to take over the class. Really, trying to be absent on a school day is ALWAYS a difficult task.
But here comes the instructional assistant in charge of in-school suspension. She will be with my class. (Relief!) I head out into the pouring rain to retrieve my ill child. More thoughts of highway death. Again, I survive. (Thank God.)
The nurse is an angel and says wonderful things to me about coming to get Elizabeth. "I knew she was having a migraine when she walked in," the nurse says, making a sad face. "The migraine kids, you can always tell just by looking at their eyes." I look at my child, who squints to see me, as the lights are too bright in the nurse's room. I have a sudden thought to pick her up, to carry her out of the nurse's station. Mama to the rescue!
The two of us get home and I make her a comfortable pallet on the couch. Put on "Peanuts Christmas" album, one of her faves. Sit beside her, stroking her hair until sleep comes. Remember all the headaches she's had. Praying there is nothing SERIOUSLY wrong with her.
I am now reminded of Being Home During the Day, which happened with great frequency when I was a stay-at-home mom. Ran two loads of laundry. Made coffee. Read the paper. The obituaries. Saw that one of my favorite newspaper writer's wife had died. Cancer. STUPID CANCER. Sherri Eberhart, only 47 years old. Died Monday, Oct. 13. Forty-seven! She had no children, her husband John (my fave KC STAR books columnist) now a widower. About a year ago he wrote openly about his wife's illness, and about a year ago I remember thinking, Dear God, she's going to die.
And now she has.
So I think of setting as I type this entry. It is a gray day. The kind of gray, rainy day that makes death seem sadder somehow. I think of W.H. Auden's poem "Funeral Blues."
"... The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good."
First, drove to school in a torrential downpour. Lots of water on the interstate. Feared I would die. Did not die. (Fortunately.) Got to school a wee bit early. Forgot magical plastic card that allows me entrance into the building. Waited five minutes for a colleague to show. Followed him in. Managed to get poorly constructed but pretty umbrella through the door but dropped important papers. Muddy wet.
Nice.
Got to classroom but forgot key (attached to magical plastic entry card); had to hunt down a custodian to gain entrance to my own classroom. While waiting, I pass a woman in the wall who looks vaguely familiar, like I knew her once, maybe ten years ago. "Kathleen," she asks. "Is that you?" Why yes, yes it is, I respond, looking at her like a dog might look in the direction of an odd sound. "It's Betsy," she tells me, her Southern accent reminding me of our collegiate relationship. As I am thinking, Why do you look so much older than you should? the answer is provided. "I'm a breast cancer survivor," she says, smiling shyly. She points to her short, curly hair. (Didn't it used to be a different color?). She doesn't explain the wrinkles and tired face. Doesn't have to. Stupid cancer. Stupid, stupid, stupid cancer. Robs a person of vitality and youth. "So that's why you weren't subbing last year," I say. I reach to hug her. "I'm so glad you're well." Betsy, dear, dear Betsy, was my longterm sub the spring my dad was dying from lung cancer. How could any of us have known that she'd be fighting for her own life just a few months later?
I walk back to my classroom, thinking about my dead father.
While the rain beats a steady thumpthumpthump, I set about getting organized. Suddenly, I feel ill. Lower unit failure! Ugh. Stomach cramps. Bowel issues. Bathroom emergency. I either have an intestinal worm or should never eat chili again. Now I'm depressed and sick.
Homeroom children file in. I sell precisely three suckers. Not good for the fundraising effort. (We're raising money to support our team account. For field trips and ice cream socials, that sort of thing.) Do agenda checks but only three students have managed to write in their boardwork.
First hour begins. Time to collect homework. Five students have done so.
Small lecture begins. "If you're going to come to school, then doesn't it make sense to do the work? It's a simple worksheet, really, about setting. You know, time and place. (Blank looks.)
Where was 'The Highwayman' set? (Answer: Texas (wrong). New York (wrong). England? Dingdingding.)
The phone rings in my classroom. I am annoyed. Why on earth does the school allow incoming calls when I am teaching? Oh, wait .... It's the school nurse at my daughter's high school. Your daughter is ill, she tells me. Migraine. Visual disturbances. You need to come get her, please.
In addition to managing a class of 26 12-year-olds, I now must contact the school secretary to find out What to Do Next. It is a crappy part of the job, needing to leave suddenly. Just can't get up, grab the purse, and head out. You've got to find someone to take over the class. Really, trying to be absent on a school day is ALWAYS a difficult task.
But here comes the instructional assistant in charge of in-school suspension. She will be with my class. (Relief!) I head out into the pouring rain to retrieve my ill child. More thoughts of highway death. Again, I survive. (Thank God.)
The nurse is an angel and says wonderful things to me about coming to get Elizabeth. "I knew she was having a migraine when she walked in," the nurse says, making a sad face. "The migraine kids, you can always tell just by looking at their eyes." I look at my child, who squints to see me, as the lights are too bright in the nurse's room. I have a sudden thought to pick her up, to carry her out of the nurse's station. Mama to the rescue!
The two of us get home and I make her a comfortable pallet on the couch. Put on "Peanuts Christmas" album, one of her faves. Sit beside her, stroking her hair until sleep comes. Remember all the headaches she's had. Praying there is nothing SERIOUSLY wrong with her.
I am now reminded of Being Home During the Day, which happened with great frequency when I was a stay-at-home mom. Ran two loads of laundry. Made coffee. Read the paper. The obituaries. Saw that one of my favorite newspaper writer's wife had died. Cancer. STUPID CANCER. Sherri Eberhart, only 47 years old. Died Monday, Oct. 13. Forty-seven! She had no children, her husband John (my fave KC STAR books columnist) now a widower. About a year ago he wrote openly about his wife's illness, and about a year ago I remember thinking, Dear God, she's going to die.
And now she has.
So I think of setting as I type this entry. It is a gray day. The kind of gray, rainy day that makes death seem sadder somehow. I think of W.H. Auden's poem "Funeral Blues."
"... The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good."
Monday, October 13, 2008
A special message to a favorite blogger, and all others who stop by to visit
Glad to see, Bee, from your recent posts that your funk is subsiding. Meanwhile, I'm in one myself, a funk of mythic proportion. I've been thinking, My God, what is wrong with me, and so, today, instead of paying attention at a USELESS staff meeting, I sat with yellow legal pad and made a list of all that's bothering me.
I shall share it with you:
1) My mother (She makes me crazy but she is dying and I must be the world's worst daughter because I really don't feel that it's in MY best interest to visit her.)
2) My son (His girlfriend dumped him on Saturday. Instead of a "Dear John" letter, she sent an email, asking to be "just friends." His heart is broken. Therefore, so is mine.)
3) My weight. Ye gads I have gotten bigger and bigger. Kind of marshmallow-ish around the middle.
4) Sticky-icky weather. Come, come fall. This summery stuff sucks.
5) Not blogging. Why are you not blogging, Kathleen? Why? Why? Why?
6) Overall, no-good-reason bad mooding. Is this menopause? Feeling like I'm PMS-ing constantly.
7) Lack of coordinated drapery and bedding in the master bedroom. Why can't I get my bedroom design to click? Where's the black-and-white toile I've coveted for years?
8) Stack of mini-assessments to grade. I mean, STACK. One hundred of them to grade. Can't. Seem. To. Get. Motivated.
9) Absent exercise. Must get to the gym. Must get to the gym. Must get to the gym.
10) Why am I hot all the time?
11) McCain-Palin ticket.
12) McCain-Palin ticket.
13) Must get fall decorations out of boxes. Scarecrow to porch. Must purchase assorted gourds to decorate steps.
14) Pay new subscription to MORE magazine. Going to miss issues if payment is not made.
15) Why aren't tulip bulbs planted?
I shall share it with you:
1) My mother (She makes me crazy but she is dying and I must be the world's worst daughter because I really don't feel that it's in MY best interest to visit her.)
2) My son (His girlfriend dumped him on Saturday. Instead of a "Dear John" letter, she sent an email, asking to be "just friends." His heart is broken. Therefore, so is mine.)
3) My weight. Ye gads I have gotten bigger and bigger. Kind of marshmallow-ish around the middle.
4) Sticky-icky weather. Come, come fall. This summery stuff sucks.
5) Not blogging. Why are you not blogging, Kathleen? Why? Why? Why?
6) Overall, no-good-reason bad mooding. Is this menopause? Feeling like I'm PMS-ing constantly.
7) Lack of coordinated drapery and bedding in the master bedroom. Why can't I get my bedroom design to click? Where's the black-and-white toile I've coveted for years?
8) Stack of mini-assessments to grade. I mean, STACK. One hundred of them to grade. Can't. Seem. To. Get. Motivated.
9) Absent exercise. Must get to the gym. Must get to the gym. Must get to the gym.
10) Why am I hot all the time?
11) McCain-Palin ticket.
12) McCain-Palin ticket.
13) Must get fall decorations out of boxes. Scarecrow to porch. Must purchase assorted gourds to decorate steps.
14) Pay new subscription to MORE magazine. Going to miss issues if payment is not made.
15) Why aren't tulip bulbs planted?
A Chili Rain
It's rainy and mildly chilly in Kansas City. October has come. Daylight wanes.
It's chili time!
When I got home from work this evening the yummy aroma greeted me before I even opened the kitchen door coming in from the garage. Could it be ... ? Would it be ... ?
Yesssss! A pot on the stove of my honey's famous three-bean blend. Piping hot. Steam rising from the kettle. White porcelain bowls of shredded cheese and chopped sweet onion sitting on the counter. Scads of oyster crackers.
After a way-too-stressful day at school, the one-dish dinner was just what I needed.
And for dessert, a slice of my youngest's birthday cake, a delightful piece of white-cake heaven.
Thank goodness for simple suppers and sugary finishes.
It's chili time!
When I got home from work this evening the yummy aroma greeted me before I even opened the kitchen door coming in from the garage. Could it be ... ? Would it be ... ?
Yesssss! A pot on the stove of my honey's famous three-bean blend. Piping hot. Steam rising from the kettle. White porcelain bowls of shredded cheese and chopped sweet onion sitting on the counter. Scads of oyster crackers.
After a way-too-stressful day at school, the one-dish dinner was just what I needed.
And for dessert, a slice of my youngest's birthday cake, a delightful piece of white-cake heaven.
Thank goodness for simple suppers and sugary finishes.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Threading beads on a string ...
Housework.
Love it (vacuuming).
Hate it (everything else).
The toilets are icky, the vanities sticky.
The hardwood floors needs a thorough hands-and-knees vinegar scrubbing; the tubs need a rubbing -- with a sanitizing concoction.
Housework.
It's like threading beads on a string with no knot at the end.
Which makes me wonder: does Governor Sarah Palin scrub her tubs and toilets? Does she do her own laundry?
I'm thinking: probably not.
And so there's the great divide. It's simply easier for a woman to work outside the home if she also doesn't have the home duties waiting for her when she gets back.
Case in point: My dearest spousal unit complained this Wednesday last that I stayed at school until 7 p.m. (I had lots to do. Really. Teaching isn't a 7 to 3 job. Seriously.) And, wouldn't you know, when I did arrive at 7 p.m. no one had eaten. Because, apparently, the mom wasn't home to do the cooking.
Now, in all fairness, I should say, because it is simply the absolute truth, that my husband does, indeed, rattle the pans more than most men ... but that night, because I hadn't arrived to notice that he was peeling the potatoes, he hadn't attempted to assemble a dinner at all.
Do we women get accolades from our husbands when we're assembling the lasagna?
I think not.
Wonder where Palin stands on this issue.
Love it (vacuuming).
Hate it (everything else).
The toilets are icky, the vanities sticky.
The hardwood floors needs a thorough hands-and-knees vinegar scrubbing; the tubs need a rubbing -- with a sanitizing concoction.
Housework.
It's like threading beads on a string with no knot at the end.
Which makes me wonder: does Governor Sarah Palin scrub her tubs and toilets? Does she do her own laundry?
I'm thinking: probably not.
And so there's the great divide. It's simply easier for a woman to work outside the home if she also doesn't have the home duties waiting for her when she gets back.
Case in point: My dearest spousal unit complained this Wednesday last that I stayed at school until 7 p.m. (I had lots to do. Really. Teaching isn't a 7 to 3 job. Seriously.) And, wouldn't you know, when I did arrive at 7 p.m. no one had eaten. Because, apparently, the mom wasn't home to do the cooking.
Now, in all fairness, I should say, because it is simply the absolute truth, that my husband does, indeed, rattle the pans more than most men ... but that night, because I hadn't arrived to notice that he was peeling the potatoes, he hadn't attempted to assemble a dinner at all.
Do we women get accolades from our husbands when we're assembling the lasagna?
I think not.
Wonder where Palin stands on this issue.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Palin a dynamo at the podium ...
The election drama thickens. Last night I watched McCain's Veep approach the podium and wow the assembly.
This gal has gumption. She's poised and articulate and passionate in her philosophies.
I am excited for the Oct. 2 vice-presidential debates.
Watching debates has always entranced me. How DO these people think so quickly?
It will be interesting when the "rubber hits the road" to see if Palin can hold her own against Biden.
I have a feeling she just might be able to do it.
This gal has gumption. She's poised and articulate and passionate in her philosophies.
I am excited for the Oct. 2 vice-presidential debates.
Watching debates has always entranced me. How DO these people think so quickly?
It will be interesting when the "rubber hits the road" to see if Palin can hold her own against Biden.
I have a feeling she just might be able to do it.
Monday, September 1, 2008
Political race is revving up ...
Wow. Wow. Wow.
Normally, I'm not a political junkie. Sure, I'm interested, just not obsessed.
Until now.
First, there was Barack Obama's impassioned DNC speech before 80,000 folks in Colorado. What an orator the Illinois senator is. For forty five minutes I was riveted to my television screen. Riveted. Impressed with his words and his vision. Happy ... no, scratch that ... elated ... ELATED that he finally did some firing back to GOP misclaims. No, there will not be a raising of middle class taxes. ("I will cut taxes for 95 percent of all working families. Because in an economy like this, the last thing we should do is raise taxes on the middle class.") Refuted the Republicans' claim that he isn't patriotic. ("We are the party of Roosevelt. We are the party of Kennedy. So don't tell me that Democrats won't defend this country. I will never hesitate to defend this nation.")
An absolutely stunning, STUNNING speech that was more State of the Union than convention rhetoric.
And then, just when I thought I couldn't be happier (thank goodness there's change coming!), Senator McCain announces his running mate, Sarah Palin, governor from Alaska.
Sarah Who?
Former mayor of what town?
A town of how many? There are more moose and elk there than people.
My first response: McCain just shot himself in the foot. No one knows who this Palin woman is. Surely people won't elect a Veep who had a whopping 900 people vote her in for mayor. I had 400 more votes than that when I was elected to a school board seat.
I thought: Obama just won the presidency.
That was my first response.
Since that first response, I've talked to people (two sisters-in-law and a grocery checkout clerk). They like this Sarah-Who. Why, because she's pretty? This I want to ask, but it seems kind of snotty-pants. You know nothing about her, so why do you like her? This I do ask. And the response I hear is this: "I heard she might be anti-abortion. I won't vote for anyone who is pro-choice." (So much for the McCain camp thinking the maverick will get Hillary's voters.)
Ah, I think: Single-issue voters.
Voters who don't read the paper, don't watch real news programming, don't understand, really, that politics is never about a single issue. Don't try to understand. Just go out and vote for a particular candidate all because of one embedded conviction.
Now that I just don't get.
But I'm listening. And, yes, I'll be watching the Republican National Convention every night, too.
I'm what's called a Big Picture thinker.
Normally, I'm not a political junkie. Sure, I'm interested, just not obsessed.
Until now.
First, there was Barack Obama's impassioned DNC speech before 80,000 folks in Colorado. What an orator the Illinois senator is. For forty five minutes I was riveted to my television screen. Riveted. Impressed with his words and his vision. Happy ... no, scratch that ... elated ... ELATED that he finally did some firing back to GOP misclaims. No, there will not be a raising of middle class taxes. ("I will cut taxes for 95 percent of all working families. Because in an economy like this, the last thing we should do is raise taxes on the middle class.") Refuted the Republicans' claim that he isn't patriotic. ("We are the party of Roosevelt. We are the party of Kennedy. So don't tell me that Democrats won't defend this country. I will never hesitate to defend this nation.")
An absolutely stunning, STUNNING speech that was more State of the Union than convention rhetoric.
And then, just when I thought I couldn't be happier (thank goodness there's change coming!), Senator McCain announces his running mate, Sarah Palin, governor from Alaska.
Sarah Who?
Former mayor of what town?
A town of how many? There are more moose and elk there than people.
My first response: McCain just shot himself in the foot. No one knows who this Palin woman is. Surely people won't elect a Veep who had a whopping 900 people vote her in for mayor. I had 400 more votes than that when I was elected to a school board seat.
I thought: Obama just won the presidency.
That was my first response.
Since that first response, I've talked to people (two sisters-in-law and a grocery checkout clerk). They like this Sarah-Who. Why, because she's pretty? This I want to ask, but it seems kind of snotty-pants. You know nothing about her, so why do you like her? This I do ask. And the response I hear is this: "I heard she might be anti-abortion. I won't vote for anyone who is pro-choice." (So much for the McCain camp thinking the maverick will get Hillary's voters.)
Ah, I think: Single-issue voters.
Voters who don't read the paper, don't watch real news programming, don't understand, really, that politics is never about a single issue. Don't try to understand. Just go out and vote for a particular candidate all because of one embedded conviction.
Now that I just don't get.
But I'm listening. And, yes, I'll be watching the Republican National Convention every night, too.
I'm what's called a Big Picture thinker.
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