Spring Dance

This one is just for fun. Scott sent me this video of himself at home dancing, and I catch myself watching it at odd moments because it makes me smile.

(It isn't really Scott)

I think you'll enjoy watching Scott dance just as much as I do!

(It is not Scott)

I think he has fantastic moves, and this really is my buddy Scott.

(not)

You will smile while you watch this clip. This assertion comes with Planet Bill's Quality Guarantee, and I will personally refund your money if you are not satisfied. Simply give your detailed banking information (routing code, etc.), your social security number, your mother's maiden name, and your first pet's name in the comments section, and your account will be adjusted before you know it.

Driving Ambition

I was told that when I was a tyke and we were visiting my grandparents' farm, I got in someone's car and drove it into the side of the barn. I am staunchly denying the truth of this fable until I see it in print in my mother's diary. I'm not saying I wouldn't have taken advantage of an available vehicle, but I defend my abilities to avoid such an obvious target, even at a tender age. I have always enjoyed driving.


I was one of those fortunate brats who was given a brand new car as soon as I got my driver's license. I had been eyeballing a neighbor's red Fiat, which was for sale, and my father wisely told me to offer him $50 less than he was asking. My dad knew that this man was such an asshole that he wouldn't take one penny less than his asking price, and I didn't know that my dad was already roaming the car dealerships for my first car. I was thrilled to learn that I would soon be driving a 1975 Datsun B-210 Hatchback.


These cars were wildly popular at the time, and we were put on a waiting list. The wait, of course, seemed interminable. I had to submit two color choices, and neither were guaranteed. My first choice was Sherwood green; the second choice was Cocoa brown. I got brown, and I was happy later that I did. The interior was cream-colored vinyl, and the car had an FM radio! At the time, an FM radio was the ultimate teen luxury, in or out of a car.


I had learned to drive in the years between The (alleged) Barn Incident and the Datsun B-210. I started out behind the wheel at a young age, when I was six or seven. No, I didn't actually drive, but my dad agreed to keep a car for one of his men when he was deployed overseas temporarily, and we had a new 1966 Oldsmobile Toronado at our house at my disposal. Unmarried sailors are notorious for spending their money on flashy cars, and this one was a beauty. From my point of view, this car was a wonderful playhouse, because you didn't need a key to operate the electrical gadgets. My friends and I would spend hours raising and lowering the windows, moving the seats back and forth like amusement park rides, and popping the hide-away headlights up and down. So much for the car's battery.


Later, I somehow figured out that if I simultaneously pressed the brake, flipped on a turn signal, and turned on the emergency flashers, I could turn on the radio in my dad's 1968 Dodge pick-up truck. I learned how to drive in this truck. It was the plainest vehicle ever produced; it didn't even have an ashtray, and the radio was an add-on feature. My dad's best friend William Worsley, a smoker, gave my dad two magnetic ashtrays for the dashboard. Yes, the dashboard was a broad expanse of metal; safety was not an available option.


The truck featured power-nothing. It had three-on-the-column, and a clutch that you had to push it in about a yard before it engaged. On cold days you needed to finesse the manual choke. The steering wheel was huge, and you had to wrest it about like a madman to get the truck to alter three degrees on the compass. I loved that truck, and I would drive it all over our big yard. We had a lot of trees, so I learned to avoid obstacles and reverse when required.


After my parents were confident that I could maneuver fairly well, and knew the difference between the brake and the accelerator, I was allowed to back the Buick up and down the driveway. Back and forth, back and forth, a bit boring, but I avoided the brick posts that flanked the driveway entrance, and I didn't ram the house (I don't want to hear another word about that barn. The story is not confirmed.)


Time for the next step. One of my parents, usually my mother, would take me on practice runs through our neighborhood after I graduated from Driveway 101. These forays were always in the dark of night. We lived in a quiet neighborhood, so I rarely encountered a fellow driver, and I learned how to turn corners without taking out shrubbery or street signs. These lessons went well, and I was a good suburban nocturnal driver at age twelve.


One evening, however, was memorable. I was driving along, minding my own business with my mother at my side, when a car appeared behind us. These were secret missions, and my mother certainly didn't want to get caught in the passenger seat with a pre-teen behind the wheel. My mother remained calm, and told me to turn at the next intersection. I did.


So did the car behind me.


"It's okay. Turn left up here onto Lakeview," Mom advised. The car behind us thought that was a good idea, too, and followed us.


"Turn left up here," said my mom, with a trace of irritation in her voice. Left we went, with the car headlights still behind us.


"Good grief. Turn right." The car followed.


"The jackass! Just turn into one of these driveways!" said my mother through clenched teeth.


I picked a driveway, and the jackass turned in right behind us. What were the chances I would choose the jackass's driveway for our escape hatch?

Mini-meme

Or is it MEME? I'm still unfamiliar with a lot of the internet language. Java and cookies sound tasty but they aren't. An entire generation will probably not know what "adobe" really means. I used to see HTML and think "Oh, no! Hate mail!" It's likely that I have deleted a few legitimate messages from friends using hotmail because I thought I was getting spammed by a porn site. Speaking of spam, my grandmother developed an occasional craving for spam sandwiches in her twilight years, just ask my cousin Sheri. Either way, it's a bad thing, and should be outlawed. I've concluded that "meme" means that something is "all about me," but I could be wrong.


In any case, Jen tagged me with a meme, and I'm supposed to tag other people. I'm not going to do that, but here are the friends I would have selected:

• Scott - because I visit his site every day for great quotations on life. He is an accomplished artist, and I'm grateful for his friendship.


• Pam - who has been sober since 1991 and has fun with life's quirks. You should check out the "Conversations with Mama" section on her blog.


• Karen - because of her grace and humor, and because we shared the same mom in different bodies.


• Jean - who has a fascinating mind, and a beautiful soul.


• Dave - because reading his blog is like ordering one of those "surprise boxes" from a catalog; something I always wanted to do when I was a kid, but my parents never let me.

On with the meme...

Five names you like:

Michael

Felix

Timothy

Cosmo

Katharine


Five names you do not like:

Donald

Lester

B.J. (Why, oh why would a parent do this to their child?)

Junior (Ditto. My guess is rampant ego)

Barry (I have my reasons for this one)


Five things you do, or should do, daily:

Drink coffee

Pray and meditate

Go to an AA meeting at dawn

Read my daily blogs

Take a nap


Five stores you like, in person or on-line:

Target

Yoder's Country Market

Sur La Table

Artisan galleries

Local farm produce markets


Five people you would tag:

(see above)


If you'd like to join in, just leave your lists in a comment.


Today marks eleven months of sobriety for me. You did not see me blogging this time last year. One year ago today I was isolated in my home, vomiting daily and shaking uncontrollably until I put more alcohol in my body. Life was very bleak. What a difference these months have made, and it all happened day by day, moment by moment. I'm very grateful to be writing this today, and I thank you for dropping by for awhile.

The Horsehair Wig

In 1988, Michael and I decided that we would take a road trip to Iowa to visit my grandmother. It was April, during that in-between time when the weather is restless and grumpy, like a woman who is seven months pregnant. We made it to a spot in the middle of nowhere west of Indianapolis on the first night. We figured that putting ourselves on the far side of the city would keep us free of morning traffic, but we hadn't counted on running out of motels as soon as we did. We finally found one called The Riviera, a twin for the one made famous by Alfred Hitchcock. The next night we stayed in Urbanna, Illinois. The following day put us in the middle of Iowa.


The first thing we did when we got to Grundy Center was check into the little motel east of town. I knew that if we showed up at Grandma's before we checked in she would barricade us in her home, because spending money on a motel was just crazy when she had plenty of room for guests. When I was growing up we would take a family trip to visit Mom's relatives about every third summer. I could always count on the color of Grandma's house and the color of her hair to be different than the last time I'd seen her.


On this trip, Grandma's house was still barn red, because she was now in a wheelchair. Since her leg amputation, she couldn't get out to paint her house like she used to do. Michael was nervous about meeting her, because I'd already told him that she either liked you or she didn't, and there wasn't any room between the two. It was dusk when we pulled into her driveway. Did I tell you this was a surprise visit?


We knocked on the door and Grandma swung it open, peering up at us. She looked first at Michael, then at me, and then back at Michael.


"Why, Michael!" she cried warmly, and ushered him in. She'd never even met the guy, and I was like a wagon he'd dragged along with him. I followed, feeling a bit neglected. And that was that; they were like two peas in a pod. We spent a wonderful evening with Grandma, drinking coffee and talking. She was outraged that we were spending good money on a motel room, but when I told her we had already checked in, paid cash, used the towels, and licked the water glasses she relented and let us return to the motel for the night.


I thought a motel would have kept Grandma from going to a lot of trouble. Instead, when we returned the next day we discovered that she had stayed up all night baking pies, bread, and cookies. She had also pulled out her old family photo albums. She knew how I loved to look through these pictures from the early 1900's, and we sat and drank coffee and ate pie while we turned the pages of the album. Michael and I sat across the table from Grandma, and she provided commentary and back-stories on the people in the old albums. Some pictures were studio portraits, but most were candid shots of daily life at the turn of the previous century.


Grandma thumped one picture with a gnarled, arthritic finger. It showed a very handsome man, and even though the picture was black and white, you could tell his eyes were as piercingly blue as my grandmother's. She told Michael "That was my dad. I didn't like him much." As I said, she either liked you or she didn't.


Another was a picture of a big old pig with swarming piglets. "That sow had fifteen pigs!" Grandma said in wonder. I thought of vintage Iowa chops and scrapple.


At the very front of the album was a studio portrait. At first glance, a woman in a beautiful white gown, hands clasped behind her, a handsome face framed by coarse, dark hair pulled back and secured at her neck.


"That was my teacher," Grandma said proudly, "He taught me how to tat."


Indeed, a closer inspection showed Michael that this was either a handsome guy, or a woman with unfortunately mannish features. D.G. Berg, formerly in the U.S. Cavalry, later a teacher in a one-room schoolhouse, lived with my grandmother's family. My great-grandfather was the head of the school board. Back then the term was "confirmed bachelor," and D.G. Berg always wanted to have a nice picture of himself in a dress. So, my great-grandmother made him a lovely dress; he got a horsehair wig and followed his dream.


There are at least seven other pictures of him in my grandmother's photo album. Some are formal portraits, others show him around the farm. He was part of my grandmother's household. D.G. Berg had served his country (one picture shows him in his Cavalry uniform), and then he served a growing farm community. He lived with them, played with them, helped with farm work and household chores, and taught my grandmother to read and write. She loved him.


He also taught her how to tat, and that was a beloved hobby that she continued until she died at the age of ninety-two.

84% Dixie

Growing up in a "Navy Town" meant that, although there were people whose families had lived in the area for generations, a large part of the population was transient, coming from all over the country. Even though I grew up in a Southern state, I developed a much fainter Southern accent than my cousins who lived at the other end of Virginia.


When I first moved to Richmond, I was surprised at the difference that a ninety minute car ride made in the way people talked. For example, let's use the words mouse and house. I pronounce the 'ou' in these words like the 'ow' in cow. When born-and-bred Richmonders I met said they had "a mouse in the house" these words rhymed with dose. I had a Mom and a Dad; they had a Mumma and a Deddy (said together it turned into mummindeddy). I might go buy groceries at the end of my day, but I worked with a couple of women who would "make groceries" on their way home. My boss, Chuck, didn't invite me over for a beer; it was a bee-uh. A bear was a buy-uh. The James Riv-uh bisects Richmond. There were new expressions to learn, also, that I had never heard in Virginia Beach. An assurance of sincerity was "I'm serious as a heart (haht) attack," and a joke-teller might be "as funny as a crutch."


My grandmother, who lived in Iowa all her life, gave directions based on the magnetic compass. You didn't turn right at the end of a road, you went west. This applied to everything, and everyone in Iowa seemed in on it. My dad would get confused when he would ask where he could find a spoon in her kitchen, and be told it was in the north drawer. I always stayed in the east bedroom when we visited her. My parents slept in the west room. This method of pinpointing locations made a lot of sense once I got used to it. No matter where you start from, east is east and west is west, but right and left depend entirely on your point of origination. This is also easy in Iowa, where most roads are laid out on a grid pattern. In Virginia, where roads must twist around mountainsides and waterways, you can go in all four directions within ten minutes.


If I think I don't carry my own accent and regionalisms around with me, all I have to do is visit my relatives in Iowa. They don't mind pointing out my Southern drawl. In fact, I learned today that my speech is 84% Dixie. A friend told me about an interesting quiz that was quite fun. Click on this link to see how you score, and be sure to drop by afterwards to share your results in a comment. Y'all come back now, ya hear?

The Monster Under The Bed

I was drawn like a moth to a flame to anything spooky or scary when I was a kid. My mom could tell some great ghost stories, and I watched The Outer Limits and The Twilight Zone whenever I could. I remember pretending to fall asleep on the sofa one night when "Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?" was the featured movie, and being scared silly when Jane served the dead rat to Blanche for lunch. I relished horror movies and mystery books.


My mom rearranged furniture frequently, and I would wake up in the night sometimes in my room completely disoriented because I couldn't figure out where I was. It was a scary feeling, but also rather pleasantly thrilling. Mom's penchant for room changes backfired on her one night, though, when I got up in my sleep to use the bathroom, and my parents woke up to find me peeing on the foot of their bed. I went back to bed, and didn't remember a thing. If she hadn't moved my bedroom furniture all around, I wouldn't have made a wrong turn.


I did sleepwalk sometimes when I was little, and so did my mom's older brother when he was a boy. One time my grandparents woke up to find Uncle Clarence on the roof of the house. Other times, Grandma would go downstairs to fix breakfast to discover that Uncle Clarence had set the table in his sleep. My mom started putting chairs and other impediments in front of our doors before bed, because my parents woke up one night to hear me crying to get back inside; the door had locked behind me when I went outside. Once again, I never woke up and didn't remember a thing the next day.


I do remember one night, however, and it was very scary indeed. I'm guessing I was about 8 years old, but I'll find out for sure when I get to the correct year in my mother's diary archives. That day, Mom had moved my furniture into a new configuration, and I popped awake in the dead of night. And I could hear it.


Slow, steady, raspy breathing coming from the foot of my bed. In an instant, every nerve in my body was on high alert. I tried to convince myself that I was imagining things, but it was undeniable. The breathing continued, and there was no doubt that it was coming from the foot of my bed. This was the real deal. I was truly more frightened than I could ever remember.


I couldn't believe this was happening. All of the times I had awakened in the night and had been afraid of the boogeyman or the monster in the closet paled in comparison to hearing the real thing just a yard away. The heavy, gasping breathing continued. I tried to figure out a plan of survival.


Every child knows that if you can make it to your parents' bed, you will be safe. Home free. Nothing can touch you if you can get to your mom and dad's bed. It's like the safe zone on the Sorry board. I had to get there. But how?


My parent's room, just at the end of the hall. might as well have been in Canada. I needed to defend myself against attack when I made my move. I wracked my brain, trying to think of a weapon. I couldn't move a muscle to look around, because that would alert the killer that I was awake and aware. That would mean instant death.


There was a wooden musical instrument on my nightstand. My dad had brought it to me from St. Thomas, and I could use it as a club. I would lunge for the weapon, bash the killer on the head as he sprang, hit the floor running like the wind, and leap into bed with my parents. Safe. My dad would kill the beast; my mother would hug me. Problem solved.


But, I couldn't move. The breathing continued, and I was paralyzed with fear. Safety seemed so close, and yet so far. I pondered this cliché as I listened to the killer draw air into his lungs. Finally, I had enough. Better to lose an arm or be killed than live in this suspense. I threw back the covers and reached for my weapon.


And suddenly everything changed. My movement gave me a different perspective on the threatening sound. It wasn't coming from the floor beyond my bed; it was coming from the ceiling. It wasn't a killer; it was one of my parents breathing as they slept. We had recently had a new heating system installed, with forced-air ducts in the ceilings. In the silence of night, the vents carried household noises from room to room. When my mother rearranged my room, it threw the sounds from their room to the end of my bed.


I almost laughed and cried at the same time with relief. I settled back into my warm bed and went back to sleep.

I have Lisa to thank for this memory of nightime spooks. Click here to read about hers.

I Like You Just The Way You Are

In my car early this morning, the nice lady on NPR told me that today marks the 40th year that Mister Rogers' Neighborhood has been on television. Although Fred Rogers died in 2003, his show lives on. She also played a snippet of a conversation with Fred that ended with him telling me that he likes me just the way I am. That was a very nice thing to hear first thing in the morning. He was a gentle man in a comfy cardigan sweater.


I was more of a Captain Kangaroo kinda kid, myself. Dancing Bear, Mr. Green Jeans, Mr. Moose (think ping pong balls), and Bunny Rabbit were my morning companions after breakfast. Grandfather Clock seemed kindly and slightly spooky at the same time. Didn't Bunny Rabbit wear glasses? I'm sure he did, and they made him look smart. He must have been crafty, because he always managed to cadge carrots from the Captain.


When I got a little older, Bugs Bunny was my favorite, and I still love all the old Warner Brothers cartoons. I think my first exposure to classical music was via these cartoons. My dad enjoyed these old cartoons, too, and we would watch them together when he was home. My mom would just roll her eyes to see her Navy frogman husband laughing out loud at Foghorn Leghorn and the little chicken hawk. Then she would dash off to scrub, scour, or wax something in the house.


I still like to watch old cartoons, and I know that my dad would, too, even though he'd be close to ninety. I wish I could sit beside him today and chuckle at the old Looney Tunes characters. My dad always loved to laugh, and (just like Mister Rogers) he loved me just the way I am.

Happy Valentime's Day!!!

Isn't it nice to have a colorful holiday made for spreading love smack-dab in the dead of winter?

(image from domiknitrix.com)


I've been thinking lately about words; more specifically, words I love. One year I received a gift of a dictionary for Christmas. Not a pocket dictionary, or an abridged dictionary, but one of those great big dictionaries like you see on a stand in a public library. It's one of my all-time favorite gifts. Thank you, Michael!

Here are some of the words at the top of my short list of beloved words. This is by no means a complete list...just what popped in my head over the past week or so:

Balmy

Dandy

Malaise

Ennui

Abbatoir

Mellifluous

Serendipity

Arcana

Behemoth

Queue

Malaprop

I like some of these words for their meaning, and some for the way they sound. For example, abbatoir has a pleasant sound, but I wouldn't like to be in one. I picture Poor Bessie, thinking she's finally being taken out on the town to a fancy French restaurant, when she really gets taken on a ride to the slaughterhouse. Maybe she ends up in the fancy restaurant after all.

Balmy can apply to the state of the climate, or the state of one's mind. Either way, they both sound pleasant. When I go completely insane, I hope folks will say I'm balmy rather than deranged.

The next time someone asks "How are you?" consider replying with "Dandy!" Keeps 'em on their toes. "Grand" works well in this application, also.

Queue is a fun word. It sounds like a letter in the alphabet, but it needs four extra letters to make it happen. Fun to say, fun to spell, and fun to mispronounce as "kwee" with unsuspecting people. Fun, fun, fun.

Mellifluous sounds pretty. And it should. It means "sounds pretty."

Serendipity is how I've discovered the best things in life.

Malaprop or malapropism has an interesting history. Read below (from dictionary.com).

Word History: "She's as headstrong as an allegory on the banks of the Nile" and "He is the very pineapple of politeness" are two of the absurd pronouncements from Mrs. Malaprop that explain why her name became synonymous with ludicrous misuse of language. A character in Richard Brinsley Sheridan's play The Rivals (1775), Mrs. Malaprop consistently uses language malapropos, that is, inappropriately. The word malapropos comes from the French phrase mal à propos, made up of mal, "badly," à, "to," and propos, "purpose, subject," and means "inappropriate." The Rivals was a popular play, and Mrs. Malaprop became enshrined in a common noun, first in the form malaprop and later in malapropism, which is first recorded in 1849. Perhaps that is what Mrs. Malaprop feared when she said, "If I reprehend any thing in this world, it is the use of my oracular tongue, and a nice derangement of epitaphs!"

I'm sure you've known a Mrs. or Mr. Malaprop. I encountered a Mrs. Malaprop five days a week for years. The irony of her verbal confusion is that she had such a keen eye for the faults of others. I admit I delighted in steering conversations in ways guaranteed to bring out her spoken blunders. My buddy Scott shared a few he's heard from someone he knows, so I've included those as well. It's only fair that he helps with this project, since he's been prodding me to post a new blog entry. Thanks for the inspiration, Scott!

From my own Mrs. Malaprop:

Valentine = Valentime

K-Mart = K-Mark

Chaperone = Cafferone

Digital = Digikal

Chimney = Chimley

Hemoglobin = Hemogoblin

Credenza = Gazebo (don't ask me how this happens; I don't know)

From Scott's Mr. Malaprop:

Glove Compartment = Glove Department

Pall Bearer = Pall Burier

Supposedly = Supposebly

Ambulance = Ambalamps

Back in the 50's or early 60's my grandparents were traveling back home to their farm after visiting us in Virginia. These were the days before the interstate highway system, and they stopped for gas in a small Kentucky town. The man pumping their gas asked where they were from.
"Iowa," my grandpa offered.
"Iowa," the man repeated, paused, then said "Around these parts we pronounce it Ohio."

Rememble to add any malapriapisms you've underheard in the comments sectional!





"The file you need is in the gazebo."

Questions That Drive People Crazy

Why doesn't Tarzan have a beard?

Why do we press harder on the remote control button when we know the batteries are dead?

Who thought it was a good idea to put an 's' in the word 'lisp'?

Why does someone believe you when you say there are four billion stars, but check when you say the paint is wet?

Why do Kamikaze pilots wear helmets?

What makes us think pressing the elevator button more than once will make it arrive faster?

Why do we park on a driveway, but drive on a parkway?

Paper or plastic?



Someone I know can be driven to fits by that last question. Seriously. I witnessed an explosive, foaming-at-the-mouth rant because of plastic grocery bags.

Why are some people remarkably unable to mesh with society? Recently most of us have heard about a man who went into a town's council meeting and killed several people with a handgun. Apparently, he was upset over parking tickets. I'll admit that I've only heard bits and pieces of this story, but what I found most astounding was watching this man's brother on a news segment act as though these killings were justified.

But let's get back to Paper versus Plastic Man. First, a little background.

I am close friends with a family of Rednecks. I'm labeling them as they describe themselves. Actually, they are down to earth, accepting, riotously joyful, and a heck of a lot of fun to spend time with. They are also always willing to lend a hand whenever I need them. They are the Aplin family.

Both Cathy and Ronnie come from large families, and there are many stories I could tell (and someday I may), but today I want to write about Cathy's brother Ralph.

I don't know Ralph that well, and he is just one in a large, colorful cast of wacky characters. Ralph is one of those folks who is stymied by human society. Highly individualistic, he gets along much better with animals than people. Paradoxically to some, he is also an avid hunter. He is a loner, and his family will see him frequently for a spell, and then he disappears for months or years.

At one point, he lived alone in an apartment with his dog, and was an arms dealer. Cathy told me that every room in his home was filled with guns and ammunition. She fully expected to turn on the news one evening to hear that he was in a stand-off with the SWAT team, barricaded in his apartment with his dog.

When things didn't make sense to Ralph, he made his own rules. During the summers when Cathy & Ronnie lived in a house with a pool, Ralph would come by with groceries and we would have big cookouts. Ralph always brought discounted meats and seafood. Here's how it actually worked. Ralph had a pre-set price in his head on food items before he went to the grocery store, and he always had a Sharpie pen in his pocket. It didn't matter that the grocer decided that shrimp would be $10.99 per pound; Ralph felt quite strongly that shrimp should not be more than $4.99 per pound and so it was. He would whip out his Sharpie, boldly cross out the grocer's price, and replace it with the price he was willing to pay. And it always worked. We always ate well at these cookouts because Ralph had a good eye for quality meats and seafood. Perhaps this came from being an outdoor sportsman.

One day he was looking through the meat section, and a woman picked up a nice roast. Ralph snapped it out of her hands, told her "that's too much," wrote in the Ralph-price with his Sharpie, and handed the package back to her. Faced with a crazy man with an indelible marker, the woman could only utter a tremulous "thank you."

At one of these gatherings the subject of plastic grocery bags came up, and Ralph was off to the races. He didn't like plastic grocery bags. He hated it when they'd ask him whether he wanted paper or plastic. I finally went in the house to get away from his rantings. I could hear him all the way in the house. Finally, he got himself so worked up and angry that he stomped off to his truck and left. One thing about Ralph, he never approached a topic with indifference.

One summer when I had some time off work, I spent a few lazy days at the Aplin's pool. Ralph was working the night shift, and he was often there, too. Even though he was known for going off like a bottle rocket and getting into fights, I never felt uneasy being there with him alone. We'd float in the sun, sometimes talking, but mostly lost in our own thoughts. Ronnie worked an early shift, and after finding us in his pool on the third day, he just shook his head and drawled "I'm gonna post a sign out front that says Fags and Lunatics Welcome."

You'd have to know Ronnie to know that he meant the "welcome" part with all his heart.

Proposed Oath of Office

Lord, make me a channel of thy peace;

that where there is hatred, I may bring love;

that where there is wrong, I may bring the spirit of forgiveness;

that where there is discord, I may bring harmony;

that where there is error, I may bring truth;

that where there is doubt, I may bring faith;

that where there is despair, I may bring hope;

that where there are shadows, I may bring light;

that where there is sadness, I may bring joy.

Lord, grant that I may seek rather to comfort than to be comforted;

to understand, than to be understood;

to love, than to be loved.

For it is by self-forgetting that one finds.

It is by forgiving that one is forgiven.

It is by dying that one awakens to eternal life.

Amen.

I'd like to suggest this as a new oath of office for world leaders. Every Presidential candidate talks about change. This simple prayer would be a novel approach to governing a nation. Many of you will recognize this as one version of the Saint Francis Prayer. It just seems to me that everything would run a little smoother in this world if folks added this to their job descriptions.

Saint Francis, born to wealth and privilege, turned to a life of poverty, privation, and devotion, much to his father's disgust. Popularly considered the patron saint of animals, his patronage also includes the environment, stowaways, and merchants. He was the founder of the Order of the Friars Minor, more widely known as the Franciscans. There's no relationship between Saint Francis and Frangelico liqueur. But the monk-shaped bottle with the little rope sash is cute.

I am no saint by even the most lax standards. I start my day with this prayer each morning. It's a good daily plan, no matter your spiritual leanings. I must admit, by the end of the day I fall short in one or more areas. I am making an effort, however. When I sum things up before I lower my lamp, I think about my shortcomings, forgive myself, and (most times) get a good night's rest. So far, I've been given a new chance each morning to try again.