I hope you’re having a thankful Independence Day. It celebrates our freedom as a nation, and to me, it represents our individual freedoms.
Independence is the treasure I value most in this life. I value it more than gold. I value it equally with and because of the memories and teachings of my mother, father, and all who have gone before me—but never left me. We owe or independence to those generations past who fought and died to give us this gift.
I honor Knowledge as the Mother of Independence, coequals that seed in me the discernment to reveal the good and the inevitable flaws in all things—politics, religion, individuals, and societies.
I treasure the freedoms given us by our forefathers with their daring break from the servility imposed by monarchy’s dictates and whims.
I also highly value that in our country, literally and figuratively, my freedom ends where your nose begins and vice-versa.
So, on this Independence Day, in the midst of an unabated pandemic in our country, let’s treasure and defend our freedoms, while protecting those of our neighbors.
Peace!
Thomas Jefferson, the third president of the United States, was an exceptionally well-read human being. Perfect? No. He had slaves as did most of the landowners of the time. That’s no excuse, of course, but what I want to focus on here is the insights he gained from READING. Something too many of today’s people have forgotten how to do, much to the distress of our nation.
From his love of reading, Jefferson gained a view of the world and its people the way a sharp-eyed eagle soaring high above the field can spot prey in the brush below. As a result, Jefferson was eerily perceptive.
Were more of us as keenly intuitive, well-read, and able to learn from history, our country, our world, might not be peeking over the rim of the chasm of self-destruction.
What follows are not my words. They are the words of Thomas Jefferson. In his lifetime he owned and read between 9,000 and 10,000 books. His interests covered most of the categories of the world’s knowledge up to his day.
In these perilous times, his wisdom deserves to be heard again. Those with keen ears will hear his words as clearly as if he were looking over our shoulders right now. And it is my hope those who hear will also heed.
Compare President Jefferson’s words with the demoralizing words and actions swirling around us today:
“A nation which expects to be ignorant and free, in a state of civilization, expects that which never was and never will be.”
“The only security of all is in a free press.”
“I have the consolation of having added nothing to my private fortune during my public service, and of retiring with hands clean as they are empty.”
“Our civil rights have no dependence upon our religious opinions (any) more than our opinions in physics or geometry.”
“…Man is the only animal which devours his own kind, for I can apply no milder term to the general prey of the rich on the poor.”
“Neither Pagan nor Mahamedan (sic) nor Jew ought to be excluded from the civil rights of the Commonwealth because of his religion.”
“The will of the people is the only legitimate foundation of any government, and to protect its free expression should be our first object.”
“I was bold in the pursuit of knowledge, never fearing to follow truth and reason to whatever results they led.”
“Whenever any form of government becomes destructive of these ends [life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness] it is the right of the people to alter or abolish it, and to institute new government…”
“I hold it that a little rebellion now and then is a good thing, and as necessary in the political world as storms in the physical.”
“When injustice becomes law, rebellion becomes a duty.”
“An honest man can feel no pleasure in the exercise of power over his fellow citizens.”
“If once the people become inattentive to the public affairs, you and I, and Congress and Assemblies, Judges and Governors, shall all become wolves. It seems to be the law of our general nature, in spite of individual exceptions.”
“He who knows nothing is closer to the truth than he whose mind is filled with falsehoods and errors.”
“A little patience, and we shall see the reign of witches pass over, their spells dissolve, and the people, recovering their true sight, restore their government to its true principles. It is true that in the meantime we are suffering deeply in spirit, and incurring the horrors of a war and long oppressions of enormous public debt…If the game runs sometime against us…we must have patience till luck turns, and then we shall have an opportunity of winning back the principles we have lost, for this is a game where principles are at stake.”
“How little do my countrymen know what precious blessings they are in possession of, and which no other people on earth enjoy!”
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com
I found this tribute to Ruth languishing in the basement of my computer files. There was no service when she died, and no information forthcoming. Still, I filed this away, unable to let go. I know her spirit continues and may flit by to take a peek at my memory of her, so here it is, Ruth, with love.
Ruth became my friend. It wasn’t always so.
In the 1990s, we worked together at the city of West Palm Beach Public Library. She was Children’s Librarian and I, coming from a career in elementary education, eventually became Associate Children’s Librarian. Except for the love of our profession, there were times when the two of us could have been plunked in a World Wrestling Entertainment ring and performed remarkably well for two lady librarians. She had her way of doing things, and I had mine.
Mine. That reminds me of the times she’d be looking for something in a hurry. I’d be at my desk, focusing on developing a new craft or activity for children’s programming. Ruth would swoop by, saying, “Ah, just what I need!” and walk off with pen, scissors, crayons, or something from my desk that she needed. Sometimes it never came back. This happened so frequently that, with my sense of humor, I’d hunch over the things on my desk when she approached, and growl, “Mine!” I soon realized there was method in her madness. She was able to keep a clean desktop because everything was spread out on…MINE!
This became such a running joke that Tim, our dear coworker, once gifted me at Christmas with a coffee mug emblazoned with a little stick figure, arms crossed, sitting on top of its coffee cup. At the bottom were the words, “Mine, mine. All mine.”
It’s sad that the demands and tensions in the working world sometimes create tunnel vision. We tend to see only one facet of a person. When we left the library, and there were no more supplies to squabble over, Ruth and I developed a more rounded friendship.
Ruth was devoted to and more than generous to her church, family, and friends. She was dedicated to her parents even beyond their deaths, often remembering them fondly with humorous anecdotes. With only a few relatives scattered about the country and no siblings, she devoted more of her time to church activities and the Children’s Rehab Center in Palm Beach until her health declined.
Despite her ailments, Ruth always found some humor to lift her spirits. She was grateful for good news and held to her belief in the power of prayer when things weren’t going well.
Although far too soon, Ruth passed peacefully in her sleep, apparently a victim of a blood sugar count fallen way too low to sustain her. Ruth will continue to be missed by those who truly cared for her.
For you, Ruth…
The COVID19 pandemic has created a form of the dystopic society of the future envisioned by countless creative writers. Most of the world’s countries were woefully unprepared for a pandemic. Some, who heeded the warning omens of the Sachems of Science rather than banishing them from the tribe, fared somewhat better than others.
A kind analogy for Unbelievers is that they were like Pollyanna, skipping along a sunny path, admiring abundant flowers ready for picking, patterns in the trees dancing in the breeze, and shapes in the clouds. Distracted and blinded by the sun’s rays, Pollyanna fails to see a deep rut in the path. She stumbles, falls, breaks both legs and is left wondering from whence cometh her help!
So unbelievably mangled has the management of this pandemic been that I’m scrapping the story I started before all this. It was a future world populated by the Haves, who successfully did away with all Have-Nots and were tended to by robots. I can’t write fast enough. Every debacle I think up is on its way to fruition before I get halfway through! But even my quirky mind never anticipated the extent of devastation this pandemic would dump on all facets of our society due to willful ignorance and apathy—let them eat cake—as it were.
It’s a stressful time for all of us. Well, all normal people. Whenever the latest glitch arises I do pause, breathe, and “think happy thoughts”—to quote one of my nephews when he was a tiny tot. It helps to see positive reports from honorable individuals and organizations who have been willing and able to pitch in, giving time, talent, and cash to fill a need and lift our spirits. Blessings on them.
Particularly at bedtime, reviewing these “happy thoughts” helps to create an easier sleep. At times, the housebound Me gets to travel in dreams—where we finally get to a pink refrigerator. My first trip last night was way out West where, in a barn, I found a dusty-tan abandoned 1930s car I wanted to purchase and restore. I won’t go through all the scenes in that trip for fear of being psychoanalyzed.
But psychoanalyze this—Trip Two: Evening in a big city, which I decided was D.C.
A friend and I were returning to a program at the library where I’d worked earlier that day. About to cross the intersection, I said, “Look! I’m sure that’s Jackie Kennedy’s house. I bet that house is as clean as the inside of . . . a pink refrigerator!” A pink refrigerator, I said to myself, you’ve got to remember that when you wake up!
And I did! Many writers say that, as I do, they keep a bedside notepad and write details of their dreams. It’s not only a good exercise in self-analyzation, but sometimes such flights of fancy can be used in one’s writing. . .just like, eventually, did last night’s pink refrigerator!
Now, remember that 1930s dusty, old tan car that I found out West? Why not use it as a story starter of your own? I’d be interested to see how it turns out.
Write on!
If you don’t laugh, you’re gonna cry about the state of our nation at this point in history. So here’s my contribution to laughter . . or at least a few appreciative groans, y’all! Hang in there so you can tell your grandkids about it!
COVIDATION 2020 by Virginia Nygardation 2020
This enforced incarceration
gives one time for contemplation
on the sad state of our nation.
Now that things are being rationed
I fear the length of isolation
will be of ultra-long duration.
With no casual migration
my rate of association
has slowed to full cessation.
In my great frustration
I seek my favorite libation
though it helps not my hydration.
Wine’s a treat to my gustation
and to my mood a great elation
though it may hasten ruination.
Still, my muse is the foundation
that spurs me to creation
and guides my innovations.
So, hello to my relations
though too late for conjugation
we’ll meet later in affiliations.
Okay. More the next time I get so inspired…or bored.
Okay. So maybe that’s a bit flippant and insensitive due to the seriousness of the terrorist-like attack on humans across the world, but before you breathe on me or cough in my face, let me explain.
1) Enforced Isolation
Introspection time reminds me that healthy skepticism has been part of my nature for as long as I can remember. Maybe it’s because my grandfather’s name was Thomas that I require proof. Maybe it was that first playground betrayal of trust by a friend. But I do trust neutral sources of truth—news sources that owe no slavish allegiance to one person. And WE—you and I—must be responsible enough to research those sources before deciding to be a “believer”—in anything!
Why? Because to continue to dance along behind the Pied Pipers in society will lead—if not to your own disillusionment or death—most certainly to the death of democracy. Democracy is hanging on in the ICU. Are you going to be the one to pull the plug, or to see that it gets the juice it needs to survive?
2) Science Contemplation Time
This Covid debacle reminds me that some form of the scientific method is a reasonable approach to follow rather than espousing untested would-be cures for this virus. It’s good to know that we as a nation are finally working on finding a way to stop this menace without giving false hope—like the false prophets who peddled “…holding your breath means you don’t have the virus,” or “colloidal silver will prevent and cure Covid-19.” In fact, the FDA says that more than three dozen claims for Covid preventives or cures exist. Caveat emptor! Hey! They said running across the street in front of traffic will kill the virus. Seriously! It will! Well, they did say there might be some side effects.
Fact: Medicinal silver does have antimicrobial properties and is often used on open wounds to prevent or kill bacteria, which are NOT viruses. Silver punctures the bacteria’s cell walls, destroying its ability to reproduce. Several years ago, when I had a deep, tubular wound in one leg, I had to pack it daily with a kind of thin gauze tape impregnated with silver. Thank you, Science. Thank you, knowledgeable doctors and nurses.
3) Life in Spite of Electronics
Yes, there is a plethora of things to do beyond Facebook, Twitter (Twitter is for Twits), i-Phones, TV, and (I reluctantly admit) the computer. I do NOT run the TV all day long filling my mind with the truly devastating effects on victims and their families.
National and local news outlets are like washing machines in that they can spin on high for an interminable stretch of time wringing out every last drop of blood, sentimentality, and tears from a subject. And what does that do? It inures us to the horror of it all. During the last mass shooting spree, one of the families said, “We don’t need your thoughts and prayers. We need action!” Ditto, again, for Covid-19 victims and their families! And they need a wee bit of mea culpa from our “leaders” who, for lack of foresight, led us directly into this tornado’s path.
So what to do? Think out of the box! Remember card games? Puzzles? Charades? Remember books? (You know, those papers with words on them stuck in a hard cover?) How about talking to your family members? Now there’s a novel idea! They can probably tell you more anecdotes about family that Ancestry can. Use that two-pound mass of gelatinous stuff between your ears and come up with a brilliant idea of your own.
4) After the Haftas come the Wannas
It’s been kind of nice around my house lately. Whirling dervishes have slowed to romantic waltzing. Enforced isolation has stripped me of all the haftas—you know the kind: “I hafta get to the Women’s Club.” “I hafta go to my writers’ group.” “I hafta be at the Art League.” “I hafta get to yoga by 10:30.” “I hafta meet the bowling team at 6 p.m.” “I hafta have the car’s oil changed.” “I hafta meet the girls for lunch.”
Today I didn’t hafta! I did some wannas. “I wanna cook!” So I did. For nine hours, including breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I also cooked up enough healthy oat flour pancakes to stock the freezer for six months at the rate I eat them—and about a week in Husband Time.
Then I chopped up a bunch of chicken breasts, sautéed them, and packed them in portions to add to various recipes. Enough for two weeks Wife Time, three days Husband Time.
Finally, I made a 9×13 No-bake Cheesecake. It will last at least until tomorrow night because I told my husband it had to set overnight. He was pacified enough with scraping the bowl. Now that he’s in bed, I think I’ll go check on that No-bake Cheesecake. It should be set by now. Cook’s privilege!
So I’ve learned that life doesn’t need all the haftas.
Sometimes you need to let go and do some wannas.
DUE TO TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES, PHOTOS CANNOT BE UPLOADED AT THIS TIME. SINCE THIS IS A VERY FEBRUARY SUBJECT, I HOPE YOU WILL ENJOY IT ANYWAY.
When I attended Central High School in Bridgeport, Connecticut, our school colors were red and black. Powerful. Strong. Tough, fighting colors, so I thought. I remember my school sweater: a big loopy-knit cardigan, black with red trim and a huge musical symbol applique awarded for my participation in chorus.
I wore that sweater to many a football game where our team fought valiantly, but in vain. The glitzy, Hollywood blue-and-gold team of Harding High School always seemed to dazzle its way to victory. The most mortifying year I still try to forget. It was the year of the big game before Thanksgiving. I have forgotten which year it was, but not the result. I felt nothing to be thankful for that day.
After the game, as I trudged up the hill from the bus stop, the lumber company manager came out of the office door and hailed me with, “Hey! How did your team do today?”
“A-hh! They lost again.”
Much to my annoyance, he persisted. “So? What was the score?”
“Sixty-five to nothing,” I grunted as his sympathetic moan trailed off into laughter. So much for red and black being strong and powerful.
But today, my ancient wisdom and creative thinking have me seeing the red and black in a different light. They are the strong colors of February, the month in which we celebrate Black History, also called African-American History, and Valentine’s Day! Black History celebrations are held in other countries as well—Canada, Ireland, the Netherlands, and the U.K.
In the U.S.A., celebrating Black History honors and acknowledges the strength, courage, and contributions to society of slave ancestors of today’s African Americans. And they continue with strength and courage to fight ignorance and racism that persist today.
Food for Thought: Racism circulates in society like a deadly virus in the bloodstream, dormant, biding its time, waiting for an agitator to cause it to flare into action. Since all things began with The Creator—however you see Him, Her, or It—how are we honoring our Source if we fail to honor that spark of divinity in others?
Okay, that was the heavy stuff. Let’s remember it but move on to a brighter issue: Red! The color that represents the heart and celebrates love represented by Valentine’s Day!
And is it coincidental that the issue of “Love thy neighbor as thyself” seems to be the message I see in juxtaposing Black History and Valentine’s Day in February?
There are various stories about St. Valentine, but the most common one is that Valentinius performed weddings for soldiers who were forbidden to marry, and he ministered to Christians persecuted under Roman rule. He also restored the sight of the daughter of the judge who sentenced him to death for his actions. Shortly before his death, he wrote her a letter and signed it “Your Valentine.” His agape love eventually became associated with romantic love, and the rest is history, as the cliché goes!
My choice? Just as we try to remember the real reason for celebrating Christmas, let’s try to remember the agape, or brotherly (and sisterly) love that guided St. Valentine’s life—even to the day he died—because I imagine that letter was one of forgiveness for his persecutors and a life lesson for the judge’s daughter.
Until next time…my mind is completely empty now. Thank you for listening!
In my long life, every time I saw a new tragedy created by humans on other humans, I thought surely mankind had reached the limit of cruelty, intolerance, and stupidity. Time and again, I have been amazed to find the answer is no. And other than the factors of nature or nurture contributing to our basest instincts, George Santayana is noted as having said, “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it,” or the more familiar paraphrase, “Those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it.”
I asked myself on this Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, January 20, 2020, if Santayana’s hypothesis still holds true. From my storehouse of common sense and years of reading and observations, came the resounding answer that left my head ringing, “YES!”
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com
And it has been—hypothesized? proven?—that even those well-versed in history, when driven by greed, hatred, or an obstinate nature, can wreak havoc on their fellow humans. It happens here, it happens everywhere. Unless, on this earth, there exists a lobotomized culture of which I’m unaware.
So, thank you, Dr. King, Jr., for your example of nonviolent protest and resistance against the forces of cruelty, intolerance, and stupidity. You set the Equality Train on the right track. It is up to us, now, to keep the engine fueled and the goal in sight.
TILL WE LEARN
© 2020 Virginia Nygard
Till we learn we are one
we spin our wheels
in deep and muddy ruts
of the bloody past
and nothing changes.
Till we learn of those like Emmett Till
the innocents who came before and since
and care enough to be the change
though we may feel alone
nothing ever changes.
Till we learn to stand for truth and justice
despite brutal blows and crushing pain
as did King, John Lewis and John McCain
and heroes all
nothing will change.
Till we learn to love ourselves
by forgiving the flaws we bear
and rethinking those we think we see
in other human beings
nothing can change.
BE BRAVE. BE THE CHANGE!
Blessings to all our friends and relatives above the Jacksonville (our Mason-Dixon) Line, that they may stay warm this winter-r-r-r! We hear Old Man Winter arrived weeks ago the way holiday preparations seem to. It’s that time of year again!
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com
Well, it’s been that time of year here since before Halloween, actually. Not even midway to Halloween, the stores began setting up Christmas displays. Hello? It seems they suffered from Thanksgiving amnesia, as do too many Americans.
They’ve forgotten the day was set aside for real thanks-giving for all our blessings. Not for the Hollywood Version starring turkey, pumpkin pie, interminable football games, and parades.
So, what did we do? Yes, we went to a lovely restaurant on the Intracoastal Waterway for a turkey dinner with all the trimmings; but we also counted our blessings, from family and friends to misfortunes that brought lessons to give our path course-corrections.
So now we all have a second chance to realign our thinking with gratitude for our blessings: Christmas. No, not the Hollywood Version again: “Miracle on 34th Street,” “It’s a Wonderful Life” (although it is a wonderful life, and there’s a lesson in that movie.)
Not the Big Business Version: the latest anything to give us bragging rights, virtual reality gimmicks, iPhone 11 (or is it 12 by the time this goes to print?) and home security to keep all your treasures safe.
So, with apologies to Santa, who can fire the elves, retire the reindeer and have Amazon do all his heavy lifting, let’s forget the commercialization of Christmas, and offer our thanks-giving for the gift of Jesus.
Regardless of where your beliefs and allegiances lie across the speculation of our spiritual nature, this much is true—Jesus was the embodiment of our Creator’s love.
However one chooses, it behooves each of us to express gratitude for our spiritual natures being granted the experience of life on this planet. Yes, you can be merry about that.
MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!
. . .well, ONE of them was ME, for my poem, “Coping.” I’m talking about the Royal Palm Literary Awards sponsored by the Florida Writers Association at their annual four-day conference in Altamonte Springs at the end of October. Awards were presented in 28 adult genres and 5 Youth genres, in both published and unpublished categories.
Poetry is subjective, we all know that. Dictionary.com tells us subjective means “…belonging to the thinking subject rather than to the object of thought….” In other words, people of either sex, or different life circumstances might see a poem differently because of what means to them, triggered by their frames of reference—their memories, experiences, or preferences.
So, when writing the winning poem, which deals with loss and surviving the agony of it, I worked hard to use words, actions, and phrases that could be attributed to either sex’s point of view. I wanted the journey from loss to healing to touch as many souls as possible.
Each of the three judges began with a score of 100 points from which they could deduct for faults in style or substance. “Coping” came away with a near-perfect score of 299 points in all. Why is it not here for you to judge for yourself? If it’s printed anywhere, even in a blog, it will not be accepted for publication elsewhere.
Why was the ONE point deducted? Well, the judge may not ever have experienced exactly the same expressions of sorrow as the character. The point the judge made was that a stronger ending might have been made had I named the lost love and made a connection with the rescue dog’s name, Max.
That the lost love was male is a subjective assumption. I’m not saying the judge was right or wrong. The suggestion was made from his/her point of view. That’s how this reader saw it because poetry can mean different things to different people.
The poem was an experiment in form, too, which was appreciated by the judges, but perhaps not entirely the way I intended. It is written in six stanzas, each with ten lines. The first line in stanza one has one syllable, the second line two, and so on up to the tenth line with ten syllables.
The second stanza reverses, with ten syllables in the first line, nine in the second line, and so on down to one syllable in the tenth line. Thoroughly confused? Imagine the work it took to tell the story in six stanzas!
And the way we women try on dress after dress to find the right fit, feel, shape, and color, it took submitting this poem to several sources before it found the right combination of factors to fit into a First Place (Gold) award!
Shifting similies to the sea, dear writers, like a good sailor, keep your craft in seaworthy shape to avoid technical problems. Know when the piece is surging, and let it flow. But trim the sails when necessary so you don’t go three sheets to the wind. Nothing’s worse than a work that’s taken aback and is touch-and-go close to its vanishing angle! Above all, don’t let landlubber opinion scuttle your writing ambitions! Write on to your safe harbor!
What’s that you say? Oh. Too many similies, eh? Mind your tongue, nipper, or you’ll be swinging from the yardarm!
READING and WRITING 