Guest bloggers put it out there:
STACEY WILK SAID WHAT?…Last Minute Plans
This goodie from Italian mama and author, Stacey Wilk reminded me that Bubbe will soon learn his Bar Mitzvah date. As proud as this Catholic girl will be to see her boy on the bimah, the thought of planning for such a momentous milestone leaves me slightly bazorgt. Step one: Compile Bar Mitzvah montage…
Two of my writer friends, Leslie and Katey were kind enough to nominate Red said what? for an Inspiring Bloggers Award. As such, I am taking a break from the personal essay circuit this month to happily accept their nomination.
Bloggers typically nominate each other for awards to show support and generate interest. To accept this nomination I am required to:
In an effort to respect the “award free” policy of some of the below sites, I am sharing them with the hope that someone might also enjoy the content. To the writers, by all means consider yourself nominated for an Inspiring Blogger Award if you would like to participate.
Catalyst Athletics Words with Lisbeth
Donna Gwinnell Lambo-Weidner’s Life is an Adventure
life in a flash Safekeeping Stories Stacey Wilk
Gold From The Dust: Bringing Stories to Life
Raising Readers The Jersey Farm Scribe
Writing for Kids (While Raising Them) Writing & Illustrating
Z is for Zampetti, L is for Librarian & W is for Writer
1. As a high school senior, I won a $50 prize sponsored by Shop Rite for “Most Personality and Common Sense.”
2. During college, I worked in the library’s periodical department.
3. With the exception of Rhythm Nation, I have seen Janet Jackson on tour every other time.
4. Margarita. Straight up. No salt.
5. Play the “right song,” and I will bust out the dance moves; anywhere, anytime.
6. Favorite CrossFit movement? The overhead squat.
Unfortunately, not me.
7. I know how to fire a musket.
Still not me, but could be.
Please contribute to the pool of inspiration. Take a minute to comment and share:
1 personal snippet (I figured 7 would be over kill)
and/or
1 blog, website, article or book that inspires you.
C’mon… indulge.
Thank you Lisa and Katey. And thank you Red said what? readers for inspiring me to write what feels right.
Guest blogger, Dan was inspired to write this piece after attending an interfaith service memorializing the Israeli and Palestinian teenagers murdered during the summer of 2014. Although the event took place several months ago, his thoughts are relevant today.
Courtesy of Interfaith Alliance
On July 30, 2014 my brother and I attended an Interfaith Memorial Service at Manhattanville College. The purpose of the service was to memorialize the mutual loss of life on both sides of the current conflict between Israel and Hamas; a conflict ignited by the brutal and senseless murder of three Israeli teenagers, Naftali Fraenkel, 16, Gilad Shaar, 16, and Eyal Yifrach, 19 and the horrific torture and revenge killing of a sixteen-year-old Palestinian Boy, Mohammed Abu Khieder.
All four victims were innocent of any crime or offense… real or perceived.
The Memorial was a non-political, truly interfaith gathering; there were both religious and non-religious community leaders present. Rabbis, Priests, Ministers, Imams and various local civic leaders and politicians were scheduled to speak to the human side of the conflict and to the roughly 250 people in attendance.
A Jesuit Priest, Faculty member of Manhattanville College and co-organizer of the Memorial began with the following introduction:
“Throughout history, there have been countless atrocities carried out in the name of religion. Here, today, let’s show the world that religion can be a vehicle of peace, compassion and understanding.”
A strong opening. I was impressed. There was a genuine air of frankness and heartfelt sincerity to him in particular, and to the service in general.
The Memorial Service continued with various speakers: Rabbis, Imams, Priests and Ministers. Each of them took a turn quoting their individual faith’s scripture parts regarding the sanctity and value placed on peace, compromise and compassion. Around the middle of the memorial, my brother’s friend and neighbor, a Jerusalem-born Palestinian, got up to chant from the Quran. It was beautiful and strangely familiar. As soon as she finished, my brother leaned over to me and said, “That sounded a lot like when we read from the Torah. We Jewish people have more in common with Muslims than any other people…”
A light bulb went off in my head, “EXACTLY!” My mind began to race and I found it difficult to focus on the other speakers.
I thought, How have things deteriorated this far?
Muslims and Jews share a common ancestry, a common Patriarch (Abraham), similar dietary laws, a similar language and the same homeland. We are cousins! “Shalom Aleychem” and “Salaam Alaykum” could easily be mistaken for the same language; both mean “Peace Be Upon You”.
I became frustrated by my inability to answer a question that has plagued the Middle East for decades in the 10 minutes that had passed since my bother’s left-hook of an observation.
And so I refocused my attention to the Memorial Service just as a Presbyterian Minister, a denomination with no particular skin in the game offered an outstanding, intelligent, yet emotional, plea for prayer and more importantly, serious call to action.
Various community leaders went on to speak, sharing the minister’s sentiments and suggesting ways in which they planned to act locally and think globally; a realistic and doable task which could be accomplished by individuals from different faiths simply talking to one another in their neighborhoods.
The Memorial Service concluded with two minutes of silent prayer. I was surprised when the Quaker representative leading it broke in with “Thank You” to conclude the ceremony. Two minutes felt like 10 seconds.
My brother and I made the 15-minute drive home, chattering non-stop about the similarities between Muslims and Jews and our individual solutions to the crisis in the Middle East. Our solutions were not plausible or realistic. We resembled two infants pondering Einstein’s Theory of Relativity.
Back at the house, my brother, sister-in-law, and I talked well into the evening about the Memorial Service and their neighbor who chanted from The Quran. We said our goodnights and I built my bed on the sofa. The sofa was comfortable, but I couldn’t sleep.
That was last summer, and to be honest, I’m still having trouble sleeping. This Memorial Service has brought into question my typically unwavering and staunch sense of justice regarding my personal “reality” about the conflict between Jews & Muslims in the Middle East.
Do not misunderstand me; I still believe that Hamas is a terrorist organization. There cannot be a lasting peace in the Middle East with Hamas as the ruling power in Gaza under its current charter (unwillingness to recognize the State of Israel) and leadership.
I also believe with every fiber of my being that The State of Israel does not only have a right to exist, it NEEDS to exist. The pogroms of the late 19th and early 20th centuries across Eastern Europe are NOT ancient history. Some Jews have grandparents who are still alive and able to share their memories and horrors of the Holocaust with younger generations.
You don’t even have to go back that far…
TODAY, there are Jews in France who have taken down the mezzuzot from their front door frames and have stopped wearing their Judaic jewelry in public, out of fear of personal, violent, acts of anti-Semitism. Yes, in my heart of hearts, I believe now more than ever: Am Yisrael Chai! (The People of Israel Live!).
Furthermore, it takes a lot of chutzpa for people living in the relative peace, security and cozy cocoon of a Western Democracy to judge Israel and criticize how it protects its citizens and borders while Hamas fires rockets from Palestinian homes and invades Israel’s territory through the use of an intricate and extensive tunnel system.
With that being said…
There are difficult truths, which Israel and Jews need to confront, both as a nation and as a people.
When sixteen year-old Khieder was tortured and murdered by extremist Jewish Israelis, the media questioned Israeli officials after the suspects were apprehended and had confessed to the brutal crime. The Israeli officials stated that they were ‘shocked that Jews would commit such a heinous crime.’
When Prime Minister Yitzchak Rabin was gunned down by a Jewish extremist due to his willingness to accept and work toward a Two-State Solution, Israeli officials were questioned as to why more protection was not afforded their Prime Minister in such a volatile and critical time. Their response: ‘It never occurred to us that a Jew would commit such a heinous crime.’
In order for a lasting peace to have a chance, this ridiculous and self-righteous brand of ignorance has to end.
The bottom line is that both parties are right and both parties are wrong.
Both Jews and Muslims have carried out many horrific acts, going back well before 1948 (the year of Israeli Statehood) and both Israelis and Palestinians have a right to a safe and secure homeland. The reality of this situation, much like the border between Israel and Palestine is not transparent.
Two days before the Memorial Service, I was at a Pro-Israel Rally outside the UN in Manhattan.
I found myself getting caught up in the “oneness” of the event. We were 15,000 in attendance and felt strong; we were mishpocha (family). The heavy hitters on the podium kept repeating Prime Minister Netanyahu’s rock-star sound byte:
“Israel uses rockets to protect its citizens and Hamas uses its citizens to protect its rockets.”
I liked it and I agreed with it, but I had a hard time SAYING it. I didn’t know why until now. The reason it sticks in my throat is because it is RHETORIC. The last thing this conflict needs at this serious and critical stage is more rhetoric.
Golda Meir once said, “There will not be peace with the Arabs until they love their children more than they hate us (Israelis).”
Perhaps there’s some truth to this. Assuming there is, let’s hope someone, very soon, adds:
‘…And Israel firmly embraces a real and lasting Two-State Solution; a shared homeland in partnership with the Palestinian People.’
And most importantly, let’s hope there are people on both sides, distant cousins, who are ready, able and willing to build trust, understanding and a lasting peace.
It’s time we moved beyond catchy sound-bytes and crowd-pleasing propaganda. There is hard work to be done by serious people and it’s getting late.
Salam Alaykum. Shalom Aleychem.
I wrote “One, Lucky Granddaughter” days after my grandmother’s death so I’d have her lessons all in one place. Thank you to Brain,Child Magazine for publishing a piece near and dear to my heart. Wonderful way to start 2015.
http://www.brainchildmag.com/2015/01/one-lucky-granddaughter/
Two weeks ago, I lost my grandmother to cancer. The disease engulfed Dot’s body almost as quickly as she learned the diagnosis.
When the doctors assured she still had a few weeks, I returned home, gathered my notebook, and made big plans to capture my grandmother’s talkative mood.
My mind raced with possibility; perhaps, as Jewish tradition teaches, Dot could fulfill the 613thmitzvah and write a Torah, a personal 10 commandments thus sealing her life scroll or perhaps, as a member of her church’s quilting guild she could share patch ideas for a memory quilt.
But by the time I got back to my grandmother’s bedside, she was already in a final sleep. Weeks whittled to hours. Before sunrise, she was gone.
Dot’s death was beautiful; swift, pain free, and at home surrounded by loved ones. Her last days, passing, and funeral…
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Four years ago I was a part-time teaching, newbie mother of two ready for more; more from the “real” me and ready to embrace a creative energy suffocated by Urb-Burb expectations, thirty-something responsibility, and motherhood.
One December morning while ushering Bubbe down the driveway en route to my work gig and his Fours class at our local preschool, an original story title dropped into my head. The words sounded like something straight out of a child’s picture book.
I have been writing ever since.
I get great joy from piecing together a picture book story. However, as a Fours mommy, yoga buddy, and KidLit publishing veteran kindly forewarned me at the outset, “Next to poetry, the most difficult thing to get published is the picture book.”
Translation? Learn to take rejection.
Aah, yes. Experiencing rejection from literary agents and editors when one is attempting to traditionally publish one’s work comes with the territory, and I have traversed that land more times than I care to count.
Regardless of how many I know who have paid it a visit; Rejection seems perpetually barren when I’m there. It is a lonely place that stings the creative spirit, erodes an already exposed ego, and paralyzes dreams.
When all roads lead to Rejection, I am tempted to curl up and quit; but I don’t. Instead, I take 8 steps and continue the journey.
Traces of the endorphin rush filled with hope and possibility that flooded my system upon hitting “Send” disintegrate, replaced by artistic misery when, after investing effort into a project, crafting a thoughtful query, and researching where to place it, the answer comes back
“No.”
Given the circumstances, wallowing in self pity is natural. So I cry over cookies and cocktails. When the party winds down, I take a deep breath and walk away; the mess can wait.
After the party, I reach out to two people; my Dad and Mac. They consistently tell me what I need to hear, “Just keep going. You’ll be alright.” There are days when I don’t feel like talking to anyone. Then I find strength in silence.
From there, I send a professional note of thanks and well wishes to the agent or editor who sent the rejection even if the response is a form letter or the answer took a
very
long
time.
In my discouraged state, I try to remember that most people don’t relish in the failure of others and that relationship building and reputation are just as important as a polished, marketable, and unique manuscript. Rejection becomes more tolerable of a place when I build bridges to cross.
When the pain dwindles, I know it’s time; time to pull myself up by the bra straps, step into a pair of gritty calloused footie pajamas, zip them up to my chin, and get back to work.
Upon giving birth to a picture book manuscript, the last thing I want to do with my precious story is examine its flaws and make changes. Reflecting on rejection is however, a catalyst for growth. It is also a balancing act between an open mind and following one’s gut.
If specific comments accompany a rejection, I comb through them to see what makes sense, face my chronic weakness; submitting before a project is ready and ask myself,
What does this story still need?
Then I write a bit or at least think about writing, and go on to the next step.
Sometimes I’m more productive when I step out of my head and investigate outside the bubble.
I find it helpful to reach out to writing partners for additional guidance, sign up for professional feedback at conferences, seek out critique opportunities from valued resources, and listen to what the children have to say.
Through it all, I embrace the positives.
Rejection is laced with signs of life. The first time I graduated from a form to a personalized rejection letter, I viewed it as cause for celebration because it meant I was growing as a writer. Whenever an agent pays a compliment, a contest recognizes a story, or an editor publishes an essay, I am reminded that although my path to picture book publication has yet to be a straight line, it is moving in the right direction.
To a catch a dream, one must cast a net. Eventually, I submit my work to another agent or editor. And while I wait for that response, I keep a writing schedule, form connections, enter contests, submit blog essays, apply for grants, and build a platform. I continue to put myself out there because in the end, I make my own luck.
Marty McFly moments happen. Just when I think I can’t take that kind of rejection, I do; because I love to write.
Wherever your passion lies, here’s to collecting nuggets, casting nets, and pulling in your 2015 dreams.
Happy New Year!
I am proud to share my 2nd essay feature in Mamalode parenting magazine.
I wrote, “A Letter to My Palestinian-American Muslim Friend” about a dear friend in my community. It was published today.
Even if you have already read the piece on Red said what?, please take a few minutes to:
The more “unique views” of the essay on Mamalode’s site during the next 30 days, the more Mama-love I receive from them.
Thank you for your continued support, especially during this busy season! Happy Holidays!
All the best,
Red
Donna is a Writer, Reiki Master, Wisdom Keeper, all around adventuress and everyone’s cheerleader. She loves anything that deals with archery, armor, and swashbuckling and appreciates a good sword.
One of my first “blogger buddies”, Donna is a wonderful writer and blogger extraordinaire. I hope you’ll take some time to check out her site.
Sweating and belching, the young mother rolls into the Emergency Room at precisely one minute before midnight. The attending physician’s eyebrows take on the appearance of his last patient’s electro-cardiogram just before she died.
(c) Dreamstime.com
“What is it this time?” he says.
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photo credit: Sarah Fedorchick
Veterans Day 2014 started out no differently than any other; with good intention and marginal action.
Each November 11th, I’d think about my grandfather Joe, a World War II Navy Veteran.
The thought was typically followed by an appreciative email or indebted Facebook post. Some years I’d even make the old fashioned phone call. Soon distracted by child rearing logistics and household priorities, I’d call it a day and opt out of making the 45 minute drive to pay a visit.
This time however, I had left Skootch’s red accordion at Joe’s house a few days before and much to the child’s dismay, had only the purple one at home. So in an effort to temper a peppering five year old, the boys and I piled into the Outback and joined my grandfather for lunch.
Joe greeted his great-grandsons at the door, offered respective kisses, and held them on the landing.
“Did you see my American flag?” he asked.
It was no surprise and nice to see that despite having recently lost his wife of 65 years, Joe remembered to dress the pole he had raised between a patch of hedges adjacent to the front stoop to commemorate the holiday and a defining time in his life.
“Do you know how to do a soldier’s salute?”
My grandfather faced the flag, modeled the salute, and instructed the boys to pay the toll. “Now you do it.”
Bubbe smiled shyly and gave it a go. The Skootch puffed his chest, cupped his palm and looked at it. Joe helped the effort along. The group crossed the threshold and stopped in the front hall.
“Do you fly one at home?” he asked. Joe didn’t wait for an answer. “Here take these.” He snatched a pair of parade flags from a collection stored in a nearby bucket.
The Skootch marched up to the second floor apartment, waving his new toy. The parade was short lived. Toddler sized penguins and a Santa Claus were performing center stage in the living room. He dropped the flag.
My grandfather rescued it. “No. Never let it touch the ground. Out of respect and honor, the American flag should always point toward the sky,” he explained. “Let’s put it in a safe place.” He tucked the base into a puffy coat curled up on a Captain’s chair.
Bubbe followed suit; partially to secure the flag but mostly to search for his great-grandpa’s Kindle Fire and Oreos in a nearby hutch.
On route to the cookies, he noticed a glass display case perched near the front of the hutch shelf. It was filled with mounted, decorated ribbons laid out like a Holland tulip field.
“What are these?” Bubbe wiped away the dust.
“Those are my war medals,” Joe said and went on to explain them one by one.
“American Campaign…
European, African, Middle Eastern Campaign…2 bronze stars
Asiatic, Pacific Campaign…2 bronze stars”
There were six in total. He circled back to the top row. “These are my dog tags. I wore them around my neck the entire time I was away. Do you know why soldiers wear two tags?”
“No,” Bubbe said.
“If a solider dies, one stays on the body; the other gets sent home.”
“Oh. I get it.”
Eavesdropping from the kitchen I thought,
Will he ever really get it?
When my children are grown, what will service, sacrifice, and country mean to them?
It is wonderful that we have a proud, willing veteran in our family to share experiences but unfortunately, I can count on one hand the number of service men and women we know. Outside of my grandfather, Bubbe and The Skootch have had only the opportunity to interact with veterans or those in active duty during elementary and religious school programs. And as Op-Ed columnist, Maureen Dowd recently noted, with “one percent of the population voluntarily enlisting in the service,” it is likely that in the future, my boys will be exposed more regularly to comic book heroes than to everyday ones.
Thankfully sacrifice, service, character, and citizenship are still being communicated in schools, through extra-curricular activities, at houses of worship and in our homes. Still, teaching young people the value of contributing to the greater good feels piecemealed, fit in, and a vehicle for resume padding.
The potential for further disconnect in these formal settings seems imminent now that such lessons are being muscled from the spotlight by college, career readiness, English Language Arts requirements and STEM. In my state, there is even a motion to de-emphasize Social Studies.
Israeli citizens get it. Out of necessity, conscription exists for most of the country’s Jewish Israeli population. Upon turning 18, men and women are obligated to serve in the military for three and two years, respectively. As a result, my 65 year old friend can relate directly to the experiences of an active soldier as well as identify with the five year old who knows he will one day fill those shoes. There, generations of citizens connect through collective responsibility and common experience.
In 2010, my husband Mac’s Letter to the Editor was published in The New York Times in response to the article, “The Way We Treat Our Troops” which in part offered support for a mandatory draft. The guy was onto something. He wrote:
“If the good problem arises where we have an abundance of young people in the military during peacetime, they could be deployed toward other national services like helping the elderly, the indigent and the disabled or for cleanup after national disasters, mentoring children and so on. America is a terrific place to live; if young people gave something back and worked alongside other Americans from all walks of life, it would tie us closer together as a country.”
In February 2013, New York State Congressman Charles Rangel introduced a most recent version of the Universal National Service Act to the House of Representative’s Armed Services Committee.
The bill requires all persons between the ages of 18 and 25 living in the United States, citizen or otherwise to perform two years of national uniformed or civilian service. Those choosing uniformed service may also be inducted during wartime, a national emergency, or a contingency operation. This CrossFit junkie would add that prior to selecting a service type; able-bodied participants attend basic training in cohorts. There is something to be said for intense, group exercise. It fosters camaraderie, physical and emotional growth, and team pride.
To date, the bill has not moved in Congress.
Yes. I realize the devil is in the details and that bigger government doesn’t necessarily translate into better outcomes. Yes. We do have a responsibility to teach our children in our families and community about service, sacrifice, and selfless giving. And yes, I too wonder about the mandatory component of such a program in a free society.
Regardless, I think it is time to take meaningful action.
Perhaps a national service requirement will shift expectations for and alleviate pressure on high school students, change the way the college admissions process is managed, reduce some of the direct financial burden on families trying to pay for higher education, and offer guidance for college graduates looking to take the next step.
More importantly, perhaps it will build awareness and understanding for soldiers and veterans suffering trauma, make care and reentry a priority for when they return home, and simply bring us closer as a nation.
“Our debt to the heroic men and valiant women
in the service of our country can never be repaid.
They have earned our undying gratitude.
America will never forget their sacrifices.”
-President Harry S Truman
There is a way to repay veterans like Joe.
Let us step away from the sideline to work in tandem with those on the front line in an effort to strengthen and preserve the solidarity of an already great nation.
Let us pay the toll.
Guest bloggers put it out there:
STACEY WILK SAID WHAT?…Life Lessons of a Mom; Children and Puppies are the Same
My boys have been hounding me for a hound. Stacey’s post reinforced the fact that I am not ready to take that plunge.
Stacey Wilk is the middle-grade series author of Welcome to Kata-Tartaroo and Welcome to Bibliotheca who also blogs about life; Italian mama style.
Two weeks ago, I lost my grandmother to cancer. The disease engulfed Dot’s body almost as quickly as she learned the diagnosis.
When the doctors assured she still had a few weeks, I returned home, gathered my notebook, and made big plans to capture my grandmother’s talkative mood.
My mind raced with possibility; perhaps, as Jewish tradition teaches, Dot could fulfill the 613th mitzvah and write a Torah, a personal 10 commandments thus sealing her life scroll or perhaps, as a member of her church’s quilting guild she could share patch ideas for a memory quilt.
But by the time I got back to my grandmother’s bedside, she was already in a final sleep. Weeks whittled to hours. Before sunrise, she was gone.
Dot’s death was beautiful; swift, pain free, and at home surrounded by loved ones. Her last days, passing, and funeral were a fluid waltz. Everything fell into place as if she was the choreographer.
Without her words, I stretched my accordion memory file in search of tucked away treasures. Two stepped forward; Sweet 16 and Oh Definitely.
Each birthday, my grandmother would caw over her candles, “I’m sweet sixteen and never been kissed.” Sixteen was her forever age; the age at which she liked to see herself.
Any time Dot emphatically agreed with a point, she broke her silence with a high pitched, “Oh, definitely!”
More memories began to surface. My notebook soon filled to form Dot’s Sweet 16 of Definite-lys.
Definitely…
1. Listen for understanding. When conversing with others, don’t uh-huh, right, or yes them. Take it all in. Dot was everyone’s ear; mine included.
2. Visit the sick. My grandmother was not afraid to go into the fray. She recognized that one’s comfort was more important than personal or situational anxiety. The key to helping those failing feel alive, she recently told me, was to talk about old times. Present day connections are less meaningful to a lost mind.
3. Create a warm and inviting home. Dot raised three daughters on the second floor of a modest, two-family house. Even as the family grew, her apartment was the place to be; men congregated in the living room, ladies packed around the dining table. A full home filled my grandmother’s heart.
4. Keep an open door policy. Dot always left an empty plate on the table. Crowds of cousins, neighbors, and friends traipsed through the door in search of company and my grandmother’s eggplant parm, kielbasa, spareribs, and peanut brittle. No appointment needed. Guests knew when Dot’s Westminster doorbell chimed, she would welcome them.
5. Talk to everyone and do it with respect and genuine interest. My grandmother was well versed in the art of chit-chatting and boy, could she work a room. From store clerks to politicians, children to commuters, she never categorized or judged. In recent years, however, she became increasingly disillusioned with technology. “No one stops to talk anymore,” she said. It made her sad.
6. Be a good time Charlie. Cut a rug, laugh, quip, banter, sing. Dot loved to tell tales of old boyfriends and reminisce about her young and single watering hole shenanigans.
7. Send cards. I’m convinced Dot single-handedly bankrolled Hallmark. My grandmother sent a card to every grandchild, great-grandchild, in-law, daughter and cousin regardless of age for every birthday and holiday, Jewish, Christian, secular or otherwise. Enclosed was always a personal check and for the little ones, an additional side of cash. Relatives can’t help but smile when they talk about Dot’s cards.
8. Watch your television stories, but limit the news; it is depressing and redundant. When my grandmother told Mac she had to check into a quiet hospital room to escape Fox News, ISIS, and Ebola, he couldn’t help but laugh.
9. Take advantage of an opportunity but own up to its responsibility. My grandmother didn’t get her driver’s license until she was a mother of three in her thirties. She loved to drive. With a dashboard pat for luck and a tank that never fell below the half way mark, Dot was always on the go. As her housemate until age five, I don’t remember ever being home before supper. But when her eyes weakened a dozen years ago, she didn’t hesitate and returned the keys.
10. Forge ahead. My grandmother’s limited eyesight was exacerbated by arthritic knees, a temperamental heart, weekly doctor visits, and piles of medication. Not once did she complain.
11. Volunteer in your community, house of worship, schools or wherever floats your boat. My grandmother’s obituary noted her occupation as Homemaker. More so, she was a chauffeur, troop leader, lunchroom aide, caregiver, church elder, and neighborhood sentinel. You name it, she did it because for her, the making of homes took a vested village.
12. Say “I love you.” Dot had a hard time doing this; showing love was easier. The last time my grandmother heard me say I love you, she still flicked her wrist and squawked, “I know, I know,” trying desperately to fight the tears.
13. Avoid self pity. Dot was a Depression kid from a broken home who left school in the 10th grade. These experiences never stopped her from embracing life.
14. Communicate. My grandmother didn’t speak to her sister for thirty years and regretted the lost time. “Put all the cards on the table now,” she advised. “Grudges are worthless. Life is too short.”
15. Keep the faith. Dot had an unwavering commitment to prayer and church; attending and sharing a pew with the same senior ladies each Sunday, often offering the young ministers words of kindness and encouragement. She held fast to what spoke to her in this universe and at the end, wasn’t afraid to let go.
16. Love well. During my grandmother’s final hours, her apartment was filled with family giving to her and my grandfather what she had always given to us: attention, care, support, strength, and comfort. At her funeral, it was no surprise to hear that strangers approached my grandfather saying, “You don’t know me, but I knew Dot. She was a special lady.” My grandmother left an imprint on the hearts of many because above all things, she valued love.
Three days before Dot’s death, The Skootch said goodbye to his great-grandmother.
He stood at the base of the hospice bed and said, “I love you, G.G.”
“You do?” she replied.
“I will miss you when God comes.”
God came; all too soon and all too suddenly it seems and I miss her.
People speak of rocks; Dot was mine. My grandmother was an exceptional lady who, during the era of her teenage crush, Frank Sinatra but long before Derek Jeter did things her way.
This way, her spirit, and legacy fill me today and always.
I am one, lucky granddaughter.
Most definitely.
Red Said What? 
