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Too many to count, too little too late?

And it begins today. The “let’s not be political”, the “people kill, guns don’t”, the “this isn’t the time to talk” and the every popular “we have a right to own guns, stop trying to take away our rights” arguments

I call bullshit. B-u-l-l- S-h-i-t. We don’t need the right to own an AR15, this is the time to talk, the gun did kill because the hand that held it was given the ability to kill so many so quickly and hell yes, this is so political it’s literally dripping with blood.

When an organization pays millions to candidates, when those candidates refuse to address this issue, when our politicians would rather accept blood money than admit everyone’s  next door neighbor doesn’t need a weapon on steroids it becomes so political.

When leaders refuse to set limitation, when they instead widen the regulations so that more can own weapons but then offer ‘thoughts and prayers’ as if those empty words mean anything when put up against bullets fired so fast you can’t see them and in such a flurry that children were mowed down. When they make it easier to own an AR15 than it is to rent a car. When it’s as easy to buy a weapon as it is to buy a can of spray paint at the Walmart. When those who are supposed to be for the people are really for the people of the NRA because that’s who butters their toast. It is political.

It might surprise those who assume they know me to find out that I believe in the right to bear arms. I don’t think it needs removing but the types of arms you can bear? That needs discussion. I grew up in a world where hunting happened. I grew up in a world where weapons were not a rarity but the world I grew up in didn’t need weapons so distractive that a school full of children could be taken out in a few short minutes.

I’m talking about this here  for a reason. I want to discuss it. I want to discuss why someone thinks it’s their given right to own as many AR15s as they want. I want to know why they need it to “protect themselves” or  “I’m a hunter so it’s okay” I want to get your thoughts, you few who read here. Because I think you should be allowed to bear arms, within specific guidelines.

I call “BULLSHIT” on the argument that “if teachers had been allowed to carry he might’ve been stopped”  Are you out of your mind? would a handgun take down an AR15?

I call “hypocrite” to anyone who claims to be pro-life  but also pro-owning an AR15 because “it’s in the constitution” or “it’s what this country was built on” BULL – SHIT.

I call “coward” to anyone who will cower to their friends and family rather than speak up.

I’m sick, literally sick every time I hear of another school shooting. I’m fed up with being told it isn’t the time to discuss it. I’m angry at those who try to justify owning a weapon they do not need for any purpose. It is political. It is emotional. It is an American problem. I’m tired of people thinking their right to do what they want trumps a parent’s right to have their children come home from school alive. I’m so frikkin sick of politicians taking money from the NRA and then pooh-poohing us when we demand answers. I’m tired of hypocrites who justify only their wants. I’m tired of death for no reason by a weapon no one has any excuse for owning. I’m tired of people so worried about what the people, they want to impress, thinking that they won’t come out and say no one needs this weapon. But mostly, I’m tired of knowing that all too often parents send their children to school and then have to see them again in a casket and seeing people try to normalize or justify this.

Thoughts and prayers. Prayers and thoughts. I’m pretty sure there are no more empty words being thrown about in Washington today.  I’m also pretty sure that thoughts and prayers without discussion and action are the new normal. But they, and this pattern of weekly/monthly school shootings will never be my new normal.



and thus ends a post that began on FB and migrated here to appease those who don’t want to face it. speak your mind, if you come here to see this. don’t talk to appease me. speak what’s in your heart. I might disagree but I will not attack or call you silly internet names. If you want to tell me why an AR15 is an okay weapon to have in your home, explain it well so maybe I can understand. If no one replies, that’s fine too.  I needed to vent. I did. It won’t make anything better but my talking won’t stop here.

I’m tired of this. I’m tired of it happening so often, I’m tired of the powers that be telling us not to talk about it. That it isn’t the time. It is the time here, I am more than willing to talk about it.

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News that’s not fit to print, or read.

I’m back. Resurrected so to speak. Not because I was missing but because my voice matters and I don’t like being silenced or told my opinions shouldn’t matter. The newly resurrected blog, my blog, is where my thoughts will go on the Government, how the decisions affect me, where the hypocricies lie and other odds and ends from inside my head.

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I’m not Lion

but I am a Lion’s fan. For my entire life I’ve loved those Deeeetroit Lions. In their good years (few), their great years (far between) and their bad years (all the rest). But I wasn’t born a Lions fan. I wasn’t raised in a house decorated in that pretty shade of blue. I am a Lions fan because of Uncle Phil.

Every year we’d make the drive from Rochester to a small town a few hours away. We’d get up early and load up the zucchini breads and cookies. We’d drive off in a station wagon filled with a cloud of Chanel No 5, Mom’s special event perfume. We’d arrive and go up the side steps, past my Uncle’s office, and into a kitchen full of bustling women and plenty of chatter. My Aunt was a bundle of energy, only 4′ 9″, the Mother of seven, a nurse who ran my Uncle’s practice and ran her house both at the same time. She’s hug us, comment on my height, and push us off into the dining room and sitting room. I’d be sent up the stairs with a pile of coats on my arm and directions to go into the first door on my left and place them on the bed. My cousins would call out to me as I went past. All but one would usually return for Thanksgiving. I was the youngest by two years and that was my brother. Next was a boy cousin 5 years older than me. So I’d go back down stairs and into the kitchen. We’d eat and then it began, an afternoon of football. I’d camp out in the sitting room once the tables were cleared and dishes all done. I’d listen to the “men” talk about work and trains and whatever men talk about and I’d listen to my Uncle talk about how much he hated the Detroit Lions.

Soooo…. I am a Lions fan. Thanks to Uncle Phil for that. I’d cheer and whoop and carry on whenever we scored or gained a first down. I’d groan when we got on the wrong side of the foul. And one by one my cousins would wander off, my Dad would doze off, and I’d watch football with Uncle Phil. My Uncle was my Dad’s brother. He was a stern man, a disciplined Father, and a man not given to warm and fuzzy moments. But during the football games he was different, kinder and for me a man I truly respected. He was a small town doctor. He was a devout Methodist. He was a good man. You just had to get past his surface to see it and the only time I saw it was during those football games.

My Uncle passed away a bit after my Dad did. He had been here near us, we visited him a few times whilehe was still open to visits. He had Alzheimers. One of the last times I saw him, when his memory was still working a bit, we visited him and his cat in the facility he was in, we talked of all those Thanksgivings and how much the car ride had changed. And I mentioned my beloved Lions and on cue he went off into a tirade about those horrible Lions. And we smiled. He lived a lot longer but he lived inside his head. When he passed it was a blessing for him, and I know my Dad and Aunt were up there waiting for him and tomorrow when I face my first Thanksgiving with no parents, I won’t just think of them but also of Uncle Phil who gave me my love of football and my Lions.

Happy Thanksgiving, I hope everyone who reads this can think o one blessing to count because if you can count one then you are indeed blessed. Be safe on the roads.

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My Mother’s hands



My mother’s hands once made a cake,
Once rode a bike,
Once ironed a shirt.
My Mother’s hands could sew a dress,
Could steer a car,
Could pet a cat.
My Mother’s hands would knead bread dough,
Would wash the dishes,
Would address an envelope.
My Mother’s hands wrote a newspaper column,
Typed quite fast,
Sent Christmas letters.
My Mother’s hands would shuffle cards,
Would turn sheet music,
Would play the piano.
But now my Mother’s hands have no more words,
Have no more music,
Have no purpose.
My Mother’s hands are quiet now. 
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it ain’t easy being green

calling a TO for a week, mom had the flu and now we’ve got it too. be back next week when the yakking stops.

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it ain’t easy being green

calling a TO for a week, mom had the flu and now we’ve got it too. be back next week when the yakking stops. 


losing my words

How scary is that? to someone like me, very scary. But I am losing my words. My Mom is losing her’s too but in a different way. Her way is worse than mine, Her’s is coming from within her. Mine from outside of me. Her’s is opening her mouth and not knowing what she wants to say even though she knows what it is. She can’t remember how to say her words. It devastates her, scares her and makes her frantic. The more she searches the more she falters and the more she begs me to fix it. I can’t. I wish I could but I cannot. Her words are like candles, slowly the breeze is blowing them out and with each loss of flame her world is darker. My words are leaving with the loss of a silent support system. A wall I leaned on  and offered in return. A friend facing the same fears and trials I face. I use my words to show the people around me that I care. I use them to offer support, I use them to help. When the flame of my words is willingly blown out I mourn but move along with life. I wish I could do the same for Mom. I can’t. 

People ask me every day how Mom is and I reply that today is a <good, bad, worse> day. For her every day is a nightmare she avoids by sleeping. People say I’m lucky to have these extra years with her. I reply that I am and I know I am lying. Her dementia is her life sentence and I am her prison warden. I control her keepers, her cell, and her everything. I feed her, I soothe her, I make the best world for her out of the hell she’s in. She leans on me. I lean on very few.

And now I mourn the loss of one of those few. I’m sad today, I’ve lost a person who understands exactly what I face every day. Who also balances the past with the parent they have now. Who has to forgive, forget, and tell someone that it will be okay, that we will fix them and make it better. Even when we can’t. 

If you read this, you few who do, and you’re thinking I’ve lost it. I haven’t. I’m just writing the words in my head because I have to get them out. I have become merely a daughter. My social circle is over age 80 and I find I love them all… Martha who calls me “dearie” and talks about nothing. Jean who misses her dog and always greets me with “how’s your dog?”. Arabelle who walks her wheelchair in circles all day long, going down each hall and then going down it again. Raymond who talks wrestling with me and wishes he could be back in his beloved PA. Doris, Joan, Jean who thinks she’s my mother-in-law, Marie, all of them. I think they’ve taught me to feel emotions better, to care, to feel compassion, and to be sad when someone is just gone. Even when the person who is just gone without a reason or a word, is a person outside that world. 


I promised a follower on here that I will use this space to share my feelings and my path with Mom. That I will share her world so they can understand. It may not always make sense but I will keep this promise. It won’t be pretty because life is not pretty and my stories aren’t so happy right now.