America The Beautiful

Our Independence is a rare thing. From the time we, as individuals, draw our first breath, our hope is to be independent beings, self sustaining and free.

It is a divine right not reserved for kings and potentates only, but God ordained for all of His children.

We, as Americans, and a handful of other nations practice the freedom of men and women as a course of life.

To many others, freedom is simply a dream that none in their nation can obtain but the extremely powerful and indelibly corrupt. They withhold the blessing for others yet grasp it fully with both hands for themselves.

We have people who still flood to the shores of this nation to bask in the light of the torch of freedom held aloft by Lady Liberty.

While immigration standards and problems still exist, the fact remains if freedom wasn't a good thing, why would they flee their own nation to come to America?

Simple.

They can choose what kind of life they can grab and work to achieve.

We don't all live the same way nor make the same choices, but in this land of America, we are free to choose.

And that is one of the great blessings that makes America beautiful after all other considerations.

We have a nation filled with natural and man-made wonders. We have a divers population who can bring rich colors and vibrant music to our lives. But the best and most rich portion of the tapestry of our lives is the simple choice of being able to guide the course of our lives in the way we see fit within the laws of our country.

I can dye my hair or shave it off.

I can buy whatever kind of bread I want to or can afford.

No one tells me I can't get an education. I can go to school or I can be a bum.

And all are choices allowed under the banner of liberty and freedom in our great land.

God bless America and Happy 4th of July!

And We Trust them Because...

Grrrrr!!!

I am frustrated right now.

I have prayed about this and I am trying to remain calm. But I must confess, it isn't easy when you are dealing with bureaucratic level incompetence. The worst part is that I paid to have my trust and faith in them abused in this way. I paid...

I have never felt like a 'john' more than I do now.

The service wasn't what was advertised. Sure, it was slickly packaged. It had a great come on line. The promises sounded perfect.

But then comes the dawn and almost two weeks worth of dawns since, and I have a huge case of buyer's remorse and a feeling like I've been used.

Ladies and gentlemen, I have been sold down the river by the postal service.

Sending things overseas for the last 19+ months has been an adventure. While Thomas was in the MTC in Provo, I had the reasonable assurance that goodies and sox and whatever we sent would reach him in a matter of a couple of days. No more than a week tops.

Even going across the pond, I have had packages take as little as 5 days or as many as 16 days. It's postal roulette at its finest.

But this beats all I've ever seen.

I have paid for documents to be shipped priority 5 to 10 days service with registered mail to insure them and make certain that they arrive on time.

Apparently, the extra fees mean nothing.

Not only did it take 4 of the alleged guaranteed days just to make it to New York City, which, by the way I can DRIVE quicker than that, but now the tracking has disappeared from the radar as if it never existed at all.

I am scared.

And I am angry.

And when I called the post office about it, they were so blasé as to be completely useless about it all. There attitude, despite me paying more for their service is 'Oh, too bad. It will get there when it gets there. This is the most secure way to ship your documents and it will be fine. Check back later.' The gal on the phone didn't even have the decency to 'feel my pain'.

Well, just go EAT ROCKS AND DIE!!!!!

The prayers I have offered and will continue to offer are straight begging. I don't want to play it up as if it is anything else. Pray that the package gets there, PLEASE. I can't have enough faith by myself on this one. I admit I am too weak.

Now, this is truly the best part of it all. Our talking eggheads in D.C. who tout the postal service as a paragon of governmental efficiency now want to model their vision of national health care on this said post office and its array of services.

I'm not only not comfortable with that idea, I'm terrified.

Try this on for size:

Misrouted mail is irritating, but it has nothing on the frustrating happenstance of misdirected medicine. Imagine getting your neighbors medicine 'by accident' and dealing with the consequences, the side effects and the possible demise they cause. Sure mistakes in the mail happen, but most won't kill you.

Or like this recent package fiasco, you set up a special procedure to take care of a medical complaint. Suddenly, you awake in a facility nothing like the one you intended to receive treatment from and the 'special' part of the operation has become a nightmare. Now you are missing something you need and they left attached or unrepaired that which you didn't need.

Oh, wait. We aren't done. You have to fill out information that can be tracked online. Just how secure is that tracking? Who can get access? Just what kind of information could be available to anyone who had your number? And if they can get your records, can they decide what services you are eligible to receive based on your 'medical zipcode'? Or can they simply delete you from the system entirely?

These D.C. powerbrokers are the same people who have a bank for their own purposes. It's called OUR WALLETS. They don't live like we do and all of their "down home" talk won't amount to a hill of beans when we are all dying waiting to get a boil lanced or to repair a cracked tooth when MRSA infections sets in.

Anytime THEY want to do something, it comes at OUR expense. And no matter how the promises have been advertised, posted and packaged, the reality is what you wake up to the next morning isn't what you purchased the night before. They have us over a barrel and they know it. We can't just get rid of them and we have to hope they really want to fulfill their promises.

And, by the way, remember this: "If the government is big enough to give you everything you want, it is big enough to take away everything you have." Gerald Ford said that. I wonder if he had the postal service and national health care in mind...

Mentholated Vapors

When it comes to thinking about aphrodesiacs and ways to make things more interesting around the home front, Vick's Vap-O-Rub doesn't exactly make me squeal with joy. And it's properties for spicing up an evening aren't legendary in any circles. Sadly, the summer allergies turned to a cold which is now bronchitis and a nasty sore throat requiring the addition of the balm as a remedy not a relationship spark.

I could cheerfully sing the low bass parts to all of the Tabernacle Choir catalog of music. That is, I could sing it... when I have a voice. Most of the time, I'm mute. Which is probably a great relief to everyone who knows me. I tend to be a chatterbox most of the time and I am quite sure their ears are receiving a well deserved break.

But it does tend to interfere with some aspects of daily living. Like when the phone rings and neither Jared or Gypsy can be pressed into service to answer its dulcet tones. Rotten teenager and rotten dog!

Which compels me to answer the phone with my sub-basement voice. My friend called to ask a couple of questions and thought I was my husband. Funny. In that way that it really isn't. I didn't think we sounded that much alike when we talk in any pitch. I could be wrong.

Then there are the delightful telephone surveyers who call to speak to 'the lady of the house' and get a rich baritone for their trouble. Funny thing is, they don't want to talk about feminine products with someone who sounds like they could play power forward for the Lakers. Perhaps it has it's advantages...

But it also has its drawbacks. Prequel to losing my voice entirely is this low register. Now, we are on the downhill slide where I can eek out a word from time to time but the sound can be heard only when you are within a three foot circle of my mouth. Further away and mosquitos laugh at the contrast between their 'booming' noise and my pitiful squeaks and moans.

Added emphasis to my whispering and croaking only makes the scratchiness of my throat worse and infinitely more painful upon swallowing.

So I am reduced to writing notes in large, bold print as if darker letters express urgency to other people, namely my husband, who would much rather enjoy his quiet and play with the new tablet PC that his company provided for him in replacement for the old one. Sure, abandon me for technology!

If dear hubby had learned sign language when the opportunity was offered a few years ago, we could have this thriving and exciting conversation in ASL. But as it is, I am left to scream my hands off to a man who has no clue what I am spelling...which is probably for the best when I start to spell some of the swear words that creep into the vernacular from time to time.

When Rick goes to work, I am left to hope that the people on the phone will not take advantage of the infirmity currently thrust upon me. I can't help how I sound when I have some sound at all.

Their laughter lets me feel the love...

Although I realize that this is a temporary, if painful, time that will move on in a few days, I also realize just how dependent I am on verbal communication. I can email and chat and text till I'm blue in the fingers (nice pun!) but it doesn't replace speech.

Now, it's time to go to bed. I can feel the mentholatum working and I can also feel the cold medicine taking effect on my tired eyes.


I hope tomorrow I can quit applying the Vap-O-Rub like a fragrance from the perfume counter. Somehow, I can't bring myself to believe any major manufacturer would make a lot of money with this as the 'everlasting fragrance to drive Him wild'. And frankly, I don't think I WANT to know a man who is driven to distraction by the smell of ointment.

Enjoy it while you can. I have high hopes that my voice will return some day in the not too distant future. In the meantime, the silence is a gift to you. One less voice in the cacaphony.

Up On Blocks

It's summertime and that only means one thing - life is up on blocks.

Yes, happy campers, the van is in for repairs.

Just like clockwork, our lives are circumscribed by the faithful eruptions of van troubles and needed repairs just as surely as Old Faithful shoots forth with precision. No more than a couple of weeks after school gets out every year, we go through this charade of hopeful hoopla.

This time, the object of our agony is the long diseased carpeting, which is redolent with the unpleasant aroma of mold, mildew and grime. It will be ripped out and the van will be cleaned, re-carpeted and the sagging sideliners and headliner will be repaired.

That all sounds delightful, doesn't it.

But unless you have been party to the hotbox of mildew on a hot day following a rainstorm, you can't imagine the smell nor appreciate our hopeful anticipation of something remarkably better. Truthfully, just about anything would smell better.

The scent is hard to describe. It's a cross between compost, mildewed leaves and rain forest in a scent Glade could never even market or sell to the animals of the jungle.

Apparently, denizens of the tropics have their standards.

Somehow over the years, the frequent rains seep into not quite closed side windows, windows that have seals that have given up the ghost, or the rains simply pour through completely open passenger and driver door windows that allow for full saturation of the carpeting while the sandman hovers overhead dumping truckloads of magic dust on us at night keeping us from hearing the raging thunderstorm that aims its fury directly into the windows of the van.

The result is that the next day, the carpeting is soaked and smells worse than anything Hollywood prop masters could invent should "Smell-O-Vision" become popular for moviegoers.

Then, just as you think you are safe from the tragedy, the temperature heats up and the thermometer rises and we are left with a hot day in a rolling, air-conditionless oven and a smell worse than death.

Since the van has no air conditioning, breathing will require all of the windows to be open all the way, the vent blowing directly into your face to give fresh air and an extremely strong constitution to endure it all.

But the good news is the van is paid for. Yes. I'm sure that IS the good news.

Yippee.

That's a lot like being announced the grand prize winner of an all-expenses paid trip to the water reclamation facility nearest you. (for those of you not in the know - that's the "poop factory" where they clean your flushed toilet water today so you can use it to brush your teeth tomorrow.)

While it may be some kind of honor, it's hard to smile through the smell.

I won't miss the old carpeting. Nope. Not one bit. Neither will anyone who has ever been forced to ride in my van. And I'm sorry you've had to ride with me. Really I am.

I most certainly won't miss the smell. Who could? Even those long dead would have at least roused enough to plug their noses.

I don't even miss the irony of this circumstance because we've spent enough on this vehicle to have put a sizable down payment on something else over the years. Sad, but true.

The only thing I am missing is my winning prize from Publisher's Clearinghouse that will make this annual summer pilgrimage to the auto shop unnecessary from henceforth and forever.

What line do it get in to sign up for that?