Yesterday I went shopping for a new dress. Sam suggested that I find a new dress for church, as he is as sick as I am of what hangs in my closet. That meant I could throw responsibility to the wind and take the afternoon off--when I should really have been grading papers.
I went to Macy's. It is one of the nicer stores in our area. Indeed, there were lovely sales and lots to try on. I loaded up with about twelve items and headed for a dressing room. It can be a bit hard on the ego to try on some of today's dress designs, particularly for "women of substance" like me. As I squeezed myself into a garment that made my breasts point north and south, I was reminded of a picture I saw once, of some kind of torture by binding. I fought my way out of the bodice gripper and picked up a sensible type of skirt. Not to be confused with sensible shoes, this skirt looked appropriate and sensible for a middle-aged woman. Alas, it had some sort of loop affair at the waist and up between my legs that made me want to walk on my toes for comfort. As I struggled out of that one, I heard a woman and child enter and take the handicap stall at the front of the dressing room.
"Mommy," chirped a boy of about four, "This is pretty. Puhritty!"
"Yes, honey. Let's see if it looks nice on mommy."
I could heard rustling and zipping sounds as she worked her way into whatever it was.
"Oh my word," was her startled response as she apparently looked at herself in the mirror.
"Mommy, don't wear that" the budding designer reported. "It's too small for you. You have too big tummy."
"Yes honey." There was a don't-talk-so-loud quality to her response. "I'll find something else."
There was more rustling and hard breathing before finally I heard a "pfh!" and a zipper going down.
"What's the matter, mommy?"
"I couldn't get the zipper down. It's hard to reach." Mom was slipping out of the dress.
"Owww! Honey, don't push on me like that!"
"Why do you have shiny things on your tummy right there?" There was such innocence in his voice. Stretch marks, that must be what he's talking about. I glanced down at my own tummy, grateful not to have any.
"Mommy, why do you have such a big tummy?"
"Look at all the pretty colors on here, honey." There was intentional distraction in her voice. More rustling fabric sounds.
"Mommy, why are you fat?"
There was a long sigh. "Mommies have big tummies sometimes."
And so do women who don't have babies, I thought ruefully, as I replaced a skin-on-a-baloney dress on its hanger.
"Do you have a baby in it like Sarah's mommy?"
"No."
"Why? Why you can't fit that dress?"
By now this conversation had my full attention. I was just reaching for a death by polyester number and couldn't wait to hear her answer.
"Just because, honey."
"Oh....Can we go to the park now?" I could hear their stall door unlocking and junior deliberately scruffing his sneakers across the floor as he was directed out of the dressing area.
I looked at myself in the mirror. My ego felt suddenly robust. It was only me and the mirror, no little commentator.
Leaving the women's department, I passed a woman browsing through a rack of sale dresses. Whirling round and round next to her was a little brown-haired boy saying over and over, "Fat-fat-fat-fat-fat-fat....fat-fat-fat-fat-fat-fat-"
May 20, 2006
May 17, 2006
I saw you
Yesterday morning on the quick drive to the office, I went past a housing development that is going up on the edge of town. I had to pause to let a big tractor-type machine lumber out of a driveway, spewing mud in all directions. As I sat there fuming because I'd be late, I noticed a 40ish-aged man sitting on his back porch--his new back porch--so new that there still were boxes all over and no fence around his yard. There he sat on a metal folding chair hunched over with an open Bible in his hands. He was so absorbed in what he was reading that he didn't see me staring at him or even seem to notice the behemoth machine leaving the development. He would read a few moments, then shut his eyes as though he was looking at something in his mind's eye, or praying--I couldn't tell. But I took notice.
I had been in such a rush that morning leaving the house that I hadn't spent any time with God. I was talking aloud to God when I had to stop for the tractor, but whatever insipid conversation I was having wasn't of the quality that the man in the metal folding chair was having. I drove on silently.
When I got to my office, two blocks further, I was ready and eager to talk to God about substantive things, and to spend time with my open Bible. The man on his new porch has no idea how his example spoke to me.
I had been in such a rush that morning leaving the house that I hadn't spent any time with God. I was talking aloud to God when I had to stop for the tractor, but whatever insipid conversation I was having wasn't of the quality that the man in the metal folding chair was having. I drove on silently.
When I got to my office, two blocks further, I was ready and eager to talk to God about substantive things, and to spend time with my open Bible. The man on his new porch has no idea how his example spoke to me.
May 16, 2006
Skinny Calories
Today I started on an eating plan that I hope, will allow me to drop 45 lbs. Yep...I have lots to drop. I ate 1299 calories--not one more, not one less. And they were very skinny little calories, but I loved every single one, I can assure you!
This morning I woke up with a nagging headache. By the time I got to school, I was hurting, even after three Advil. At 10:00 I was fighting nausea and at 11:00 I came home, sick, clutching a wastebasket and waiting to heave. But I didn't want to give up even one of my already eaten skinny calories. So I climbed into bed and fell asleep for several hours and they stayed put.
My life is simple. I am committed to stay with this and behave myself, regardless of what my head and stomach does.
This morning I woke up with a nagging headache. By the time I got to school, I was hurting, even after three Advil. At 10:00 I was fighting nausea and at 11:00 I came home, sick, clutching a wastebasket and waiting to heave. But I didn't want to give up even one of my already eaten skinny calories. So I climbed into bed and fell asleep for several hours and they stayed put.
My life is simple. I am committed to stay with this and behave myself, regardless of what my head and stomach does.
May 14, 2006
The Great Hen in the Sky
O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, you who kill the prophets and stone those sent to you, how often I have longed to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings, but you were not willing. Matthew 23:37
When we were children we had chickens. My father decided that we needed to have this experience when we moved to the country. So the neighbor gave us several pullets and my brother and I became mothers to our baby chickens. In a streak of creative genius, Brother named them One Spot, Two Spot, Three Spot and Four Spot, though none of them really were spotted. Sometimes the rest of us could tell which was which, but only Brother really knew who was who in that brood. That was because he was their mother. They had imprinted on him, and wherever he went, they went.
He found a chick in the woods once, under a doghouse that a wind storm had overturned, killing the mother and ruining all the eggs in it. Except this one little chick. Brother became his mother, too, and chick came home in his shirt pocket to live in the big empty chicken coop, all alone. I used to creep down the stairs and out to the chickenhouse after dark, bringing him back up to my room to sleep inside of an old white glove, tucked under my chin. He was quiet and (I thought) rather grateful to get to sleep in my bed every night. But then he outgrew the glove and another morning he woke us all up with an croaky, adolescent crow, and he was banished from the house by my mother. By then, chick had become Giovanni, the great Rhode Island Red rooster of Large Road. Since he had grown up being around humans, Giovanni felt that he was a human. When we were outside working in the garden, Giovanni was close at hand, pulling up worms and offering them to us with excited clucks. When we went for a walk down the road, here came Giovanni after us, running on his stilty long legs, eager to be part of things.
The funniest sight involving Giovanni happened every Sunday at our house. Dad would go out to mow the lawn on the riding lawnmower and Giovanni felt that he should sit on my father's lap for the duration of the task. But Dad would (on purpose) head off down the lawn, leaving a wide mowed swath of grass upon which Giovanni ran with great determination behind the lawnmower. After running for several lengths of the property, my father would swoop him up and put him on his lap. Giovanni would nestle right down against my father and content himself with delicately picking flecks of grass off my father's shirt, or giving cackling commentary about birds overhead or sudden noises from running over tree roots. After all, my father was Giovanni's mother, too, and he could not be content without being near, Dad's arm wrapped protectively around the 20-lb bird, holding him up against his side.
As we think about Mother's Day, it is not only women whom we celebrate. Jesus, in His impassioned comments over the city of Jerusalem, proclaimed Himself the greatest mother there ever was: our Mother-Father God.
So to all who provide solace, cheer, inspiration, or protection, for all the children, students, cats, chickens, men, or any other living thing: Happy Mother's Day. May you mother others and allow the Great Hen in the Sky to be your mother, too.
May 13, 2006
Madhouse
Sam and Otis have become buddies in rowdiness. The neighbors must wonder what goes on here, because in the early morning a passerby on the street can hear the sounds of heavy feet purposely clomping loudly down our stairs at top speed, and raucus hooting and chortling. Otis is only a few feet ahead of Sam, body streaking past the stair railing, his skidding feet shirring up the throw carpet at the bottom step. Round and round the island in the kitchen they tear, Otis' feet whirling in circles, like a cartoon character, trying to get traction on the tile floor, Sam waving his arms and laughing manaically. Then it's back up the stairs for a game of hide-and-seek in the hall: who will charge out of a doorway and scare the other first? This can go on for several minutes until Sam is out of breath or Otis has had enough. Sam flops down on the couch, and Otis runs under it. We see just his tail sticking out "like a handle," Sam laughs. He reaches down and bats the tail, and Otis' front feet suddenly emerge from under the couch and wrap around Sam's ankle.
Otis falls asleep on my lap every evening, while I'm working on my laptop-on-top-of-the-arm-of-the-chair computer. He looks like a dear, sweet, little cat. His sleepy "Frrrrrrrrrmph" sound when I pet him, half asleep, adds to his innocent presentation. He has to have his face on my hand when he sleeps. Occasionally decides that my hand should be cleaner than it is, so with his #9 sandpaper tongue, he tries to remove a layer or two of skin.
But let Sam make a sudden move toward him and his ears are flat, tail in an S-curve, and with a wild-eyed expression, he is dashing off helter-skelter in the opposite direction, ready for another game.
I'm so glad God has given us these little creatures. For some of us, it is as close to mothering as we can get. For others, they are like little bits of heaven for us to enjoy before the time. We are just so happy he is in our lives.
May 11, 2006
Brave Heart
I have the privilege of working with some of the most courageous people in the world--people who weekly take on their inner demons in therapy. There is an unearthly but predictable internal dance that can be tracked by intently watching their faces. It is my job to get the demon out in the open--theirs to take it on.
Today, I watched as an exhausted but determined woman chased terror across the landscape of her heart. Her life has been one that, God forbid, anyone should have the misfortune of living. But she still gets up in the morning, washes her face, makes breakfast for her children, and goes off to work. All this, while she fights an internal war with hideous memories that nearly cost her life. Today, after a particularly difficult face-off, she was able to leave worn out, but tearfully victorious.
The sad thing is that I can't tell anyone about all her victories and strengths. But I do think about it sometimes when I lie in bed and think about all the brave people in this world that no one will ever know about.
Today, I watched as an exhausted but determined woman chased terror across the landscape of her heart. Her life has been one that, God forbid, anyone should have the misfortune of living. But she still gets up in the morning, washes her face, makes breakfast for her children, and goes off to work. All this, while she fights an internal war with hideous memories that nearly cost her life. Today, after a particularly difficult face-off, she was able to leave worn out, but tearfully victorious.
The sad thing is that I can't tell anyone about all her victories and strengths. But I do think about it sometimes when I lie in bed and think about all the brave people in this world that no one will ever know about.
May 2, 2006
The Isle of Inorgasmia
When I found out that I had been assigned to teach an undergraduate course called "Marriage and the Family" this quarter, I just about died. So many college kids hate the thought of being told anything about relationships, but there were other problems with my teaching assignment.
For starters, I never was your typical teenager and I have a hard time relating to them--even some young adults. I'm hypersensitive to any signs of rejection from them because I felt rather rejected by my peers when I was younger. The second problem with teaching undergrads is that I'm not used to teaching kids who aren't serious about learning the material in the same way that graduates in clinical programs are. And I've never had teenagers of my own. Add the Generation Y entitlement and cockiness in the classroom, and you can see why I dreaded this class. It didn't help that this course is also seen as a general education "filler" class. Take it if you need to get a few more easy credits to graduate.
The first class period was painful for me and they seemed unimpressed. Four girls giggled and whispered together the entire time. When I asked them to "Keep it down" one looked deeply offended and two rolled their eyes at me. It was as if I had done something wrong by setting limits on their behavior. I went home steamed.
We are now six weeks into the course. I've learned that if I become more conversational and ask them what they think as a way to stimulate discussion, they are more attentive and seem to not mind being in class. Of course, no one looks interested per se, but at least now they are quiet and look like they're at least listening to me.
Tonight our topic was about sexual aspects of marriage. Half way through my PowerPoint presentation, I suddenly noticed that hands were flying up all over the room and kids could hardly wait to weigh in with their opinions. As we discussed various terms related to sexual dysfunction, I asked the class if they knew what the word inorgasmia means.
One guy in the middle of the classroom, Mr. Popularity, volunteered, "It sounds exotic, like some kind of Paradise vacation island." Laughter erupted all around him. Pleased with himself, he looked around the room at all the impressed, nervously chuckling students. When I heard his comment, I had laughed out loud.
"So what is it?" The whole class went quiet and looked at me.
"It's an island that I don't think you'd like very much." Inorgasmia is the inability to experience orgasm. After explaining this and gently teasing Mr. Popularity, the whole class was one happy good-spirited uproar.
After class, two girls--one of the eye-rollers, and one who is consistently loud in class--stayed by to ask me all sorts of questions about sex. I'd answer a few questions, we'd walk a few steps and they'd ask me something else. "Oh...oh yeah! I wanted to ask you one more short question..."
As I turned to leave half an hour later, we had managed to get out of the classroom and but only to the end of the hall. The girls didn't thank me for my time, but both smiled broadly at me when I said goodnight. Walking down the stairs I overheard one girl say, "Geez! I just love this class!" They went one direction and I turned a corner of my own.
I can't wait until next week.
For starters, I never was your typical teenager and I have a hard time relating to them--even some young adults. I'm hypersensitive to any signs of rejection from them because I felt rather rejected by my peers when I was younger. The second problem with teaching undergrads is that I'm not used to teaching kids who aren't serious about learning the material in the same way that graduates in clinical programs are. And I've never had teenagers of my own. Add the Generation Y entitlement and cockiness in the classroom, and you can see why I dreaded this class. It didn't help that this course is also seen as a general education "filler" class. Take it if you need to get a few more easy credits to graduate.
The first class period was painful for me and they seemed unimpressed. Four girls giggled and whispered together the entire time. When I asked them to "Keep it down" one looked deeply offended and two rolled their eyes at me. It was as if I had done something wrong by setting limits on their behavior. I went home steamed.
We are now six weeks into the course. I've learned that if I become more conversational and ask them what they think as a way to stimulate discussion, they are more attentive and seem to not mind being in class. Of course, no one looks interested per se, but at least now they are quiet and look like they're at least listening to me.
Tonight our topic was about sexual aspects of marriage. Half way through my PowerPoint presentation, I suddenly noticed that hands were flying up all over the room and kids could hardly wait to weigh in with their opinions. As we discussed various terms related to sexual dysfunction, I asked the class if they knew what the word inorgasmia means.
One guy in the middle of the classroom, Mr. Popularity, volunteered, "It sounds exotic, like some kind of Paradise vacation island." Laughter erupted all around him. Pleased with himself, he looked around the room at all the impressed, nervously chuckling students. When I heard his comment, I had laughed out loud.
"So what is it?" The whole class went quiet and looked at me.
"It's an island that I don't think you'd like very much." Inorgasmia is the inability to experience orgasm. After explaining this and gently teasing Mr. Popularity, the whole class was one happy good-spirited uproar.
After class, two girls--one of the eye-rollers, and one who is consistently loud in class--stayed by to ask me all sorts of questions about sex. I'd answer a few questions, we'd walk a few steps and they'd ask me something else. "Oh...oh yeah! I wanted to ask you one more short question..."
As I turned to leave half an hour later, we had managed to get out of the classroom and but only to the end of the hall. The girls didn't thank me for my time, but both smiled broadly at me when I said goodnight. Walking down the stairs I overheard one girl say, "Geez! I just love this class!" They went one direction and I turned a corner of my own.
I can't wait until next week.
April 29, 2006
Lean in a little closer
Yesterday I flew in to town on what people may call a "puddle jumper:" a small comercial airplane. Maybe 25 people were on the plane, all told. As I got to the very back of the plane I noticed that there was a man in my seat--my window seat--the very back corner seat. He was disheveled and was intent on looking out the window. He also already had his seatbelt fastened. In my seat.
Excuse me sir, you're in my seat.
He jerked his head around. Oh, are you supposed to sit here, ma'am?
I nodded and he slid out of the seat so I could climb in next to the window. As he slid in beside me, my nose told me that he was well acquainted with alcohol.
His red nose and the sores and blackheads all over his face and neck filled in some of the details.
Where are you headed today? I asked.
Penneldon, he slurred back, a little too loudly. The woman ahead of us winced.
He smiled broadly at me. I could see the remains of his last meal caked on his front tooth. How 'bout you, ma'am?
Oh, just to--
--Yeah--I grew up there and lived there all my life. Before I could reply, he continued, I'm just coming back from Alaska. I've been up there for four months. Just got out today before the ice came. I could uv been snowed in then I never would have been able to get out.
Wow!
He leaned into me, pressing me even further into the corner. So I am very glad to be sitting beside you on this plane today!
I smiled back. I hope he'd noticed my wedding ring. His breath was nauseating.
Just then, the woman across at the end of the next row leaned over and started to engage me in conversation. She was an acquaintance, and we had mutual interests. As I responded to her questions, looking past my seatmate, he grunted in approval, and a couple times chuckled at my comments. Then, realizing that he was obstructing my view of the woman, he leaned back in the seat and averted his eyes.
A few minutes later, he lurched around in his seat to face a teenager next to him.
How old are you? His voice was entirely too loud for polite conversation.
Thirteen.
Thirteen! he bellowed. I remember being that age when I used to live here. The kid cringed and focused on the man's mouth as he spoke.
Maybe my seatmate realized something about him was inappropriate, because he suddenly fell silent. A few minutes later, his head was back on the headrest and he was asleep, mouth wide open.
I busied myself with grading papers. As I wrote, the man leaned into me as he slept. His arm and left leg were pressed against me, and his head began to lag toward me. Oh please! I silently thought.
But just then the flight attendent came through offering beverages. He lit up and ordered wine. I should have known. He looked delighted as he slugged it down.
I decided to engage him about some topic--the town in which he grew up. Every response he made was shallow, agreeable, and extremely loud. So I returned to grading papers and he drifted off again, leaning into me once more.
What would Jesus have done with someone like this? Engage him in conversation about his eternal soul? Touch on the very pains that made him turn to drinking? Reassure him somehow? Would Jesus have talked to him about other aspects of his life to point out that his value and experience is about much more than what he ingests? Would he have offered some suggestions about how to stop drinking? Should I talk with him as a therapist, a representative of Christ, a nurse, or a friend? Which language would be appropriate? Should I ask him about his family--children, wife, mother, father? Would it be appropriate to ask him about his line of work? Would that just be mockery, since I couldn't see how he might even hold a job, as saturated with alcohol as he was. I sat, studying the tip of my pen, as I tried to think how to interact with this man that would make some sort of difference in his life--or in mine.
All I could come up with was that I didn't want to treat him in a less than respectful, honoring way--even if he is a drunk, or whatever else he might be. I'd been pleasant to many irresponsible, womanizing, drinking, controlling men on airplanes before. They just hadn't been as drunk as he was.
As I pondered what to do, it dawned on me that I might be like this man in many ways. I eat too much--gluttony, it's called--and it doesn't seem to go away, but get worse and worse with time. What makes me so different than him? Clean teeth, minty breath, clear skin, ability to think clearly, a bank account, and probably much less pain in my life. But if the flight attendant had offered us chocolates, I'd have gobbled one down and wished for a second. So what should I do about this guy? Who was I to do anything? What made me better?
Maybe the only thing I could do would be to stay with him--sit with him shoulder to shoulder, and feel the commonality of being just one more member of the human family for whom Christ died. And so the drunkard and the glutton rode quietly together for the duration of the flight.
As we lurched and soared into our final destination, two people, greatly in need of God's grace, sat shoulder to shoulder, waiting to see what God would do in their lives. Wherever he is now--waking up from a bender, or on his way to church, God is as merciful to him as He is to me--loves him no less and no more than me. He is no better and no worse than me. We all need what Jesus came here to give us. Every one of us.
Excuse me sir, you're in my seat.
He jerked his head around. Oh, are you supposed to sit here, ma'am?
I nodded and he slid out of the seat so I could climb in next to the window. As he slid in beside me, my nose told me that he was well acquainted with alcohol.
His red nose and the sores and blackheads all over his face and neck filled in some of the details.
Where are you headed today? I asked.
Penneldon, he slurred back, a little too loudly. The woman ahead of us winced.
He smiled broadly at me. I could see the remains of his last meal caked on his front tooth. How 'bout you, ma'am?
Oh, just to--
--Yeah--I grew up there and lived there all my life. Before I could reply, he continued, I'm just coming back from Alaska. I've been up there for four months. Just got out today before the ice came. I could uv been snowed in then I never would have been able to get out.
Wow!
He leaned into me, pressing me even further into the corner. So I am very glad to be sitting beside you on this plane today!
I smiled back. I hope he'd noticed my wedding ring. His breath was nauseating.
Just then, the woman across at the end of the next row leaned over and started to engage me in conversation. She was an acquaintance, and we had mutual interests. As I responded to her questions, looking past my seatmate, he grunted in approval, and a couple times chuckled at my comments. Then, realizing that he was obstructing my view of the woman, he leaned back in the seat and averted his eyes.
A few minutes later, he lurched around in his seat to face a teenager next to him.
How old are you? His voice was entirely too loud for polite conversation.
Thirteen.
Thirteen! he bellowed. I remember being that age when I used to live here. The kid cringed and focused on the man's mouth as he spoke.
Maybe my seatmate realized something about him was inappropriate, because he suddenly fell silent. A few minutes later, his head was back on the headrest and he was asleep, mouth wide open.
I busied myself with grading papers. As I wrote, the man leaned into me as he slept. His arm and left leg were pressed against me, and his head began to lag toward me. Oh please! I silently thought.
But just then the flight attendent came through offering beverages. He lit up and ordered wine. I should have known. He looked delighted as he slugged it down.
I decided to engage him about some topic--the town in which he grew up. Every response he made was shallow, agreeable, and extremely loud. So I returned to grading papers and he drifted off again, leaning into me once more.
What would Jesus have done with someone like this? Engage him in conversation about his eternal soul? Touch on the very pains that made him turn to drinking? Reassure him somehow? Would Jesus have talked to him about other aspects of his life to point out that his value and experience is about much more than what he ingests? Would he have offered some suggestions about how to stop drinking? Should I talk with him as a therapist, a representative of Christ, a nurse, or a friend? Which language would be appropriate? Should I ask him about his family--children, wife, mother, father? Would it be appropriate to ask him about his line of work? Would that just be mockery, since I couldn't see how he might even hold a job, as saturated with alcohol as he was. I sat, studying the tip of my pen, as I tried to think how to interact with this man that would make some sort of difference in his life--or in mine.
All I could come up with was that I didn't want to treat him in a less than respectful, honoring way--even if he is a drunk, or whatever else he might be. I'd been pleasant to many irresponsible, womanizing, drinking, controlling men on airplanes before. They just hadn't been as drunk as he was.
As I pondered what to do, it dawned on me that I might be like this man in many ways. I eat too much--gluttony, it's called--and it doesn't seem to go away, but get worse and worse with time. What makes me so different than him? Clean teeth, minty breath, clear skin, ability to think clearly, a bank account, and probably much less pain in my life. But if the flight attendant had offered us chocolates, I'd have gobbled one down and wished for a second. So what should I do about this guy? Who was I to do anything? What made me better?
Maybe the only thing I could do would be to stay with him--sit with him shoulder to shoulder, and feel the commonality of being just one more member of the human family for whom Christ died. And so the drunkard and the glutton rode quietly together for the duration of the flight.
As we lurched and soared into our final destination, two people, greatly in need of God's grace, sat shoulder to shoulder, waiting to see what God would do in their lives. Wherever he is now--waking up from a bender, or on his way to church, God is as merciful to him as He is to me--loves him no less and no more than me. He is no better and no worse than me. We all need what Jesus came here to give us. Every one of us.
April 24, 2006
Still chuckling
I just received this missive from my father that I'm passing along. I just love the way my parents do things together and support one another in so many of life's circumstances.
Hi Y'all:
Mother wanted me to pass on the exuberances of this a.m.
She had been selected for jury duty starting today so we promptly arrived at the court house around 9:00 a.m., went through the detector looking for hidden weapons and then upstairs to the jury room where we watched a film, watched several different people (i.e. court stenographer, a couple sherif deputies, the prosecution and the defense along with some young chap in a nice suit) under surviellance by a female deputy that was short, squat, and built very substantially.
"All Rise!" was the command as the honorable Peter Craft* entered the room. He made some announcements, explained what the rules wre for the court decorum and then called the first twelve potential jurors for examination.
Questions like:
State your name and pertinent information as to what you do, if employed.
How do you feel about drinking and driving?
How do you feel about sentencing and finding someone guilty?
Several answered how they were feeling, what experience they had with alcohol etc.
Out of twelve juriors, nine stayed and the rest were excused.
The second batch entered and they got pretty well cleaned out.
The third batch entered and then the fun began again. The judge would call each one by name and then start out asking questions.
"Elvira Coolan?" Elvira answered "ELVIRA COWLAN"
"Tell us a little bit about yourself, Mrs. Cowlan"
"I'm Elvira Cowlan, housewife, and have been married to the same man for 55 yrs."
The judge: "Well, I've been married for 48 years, but what my wife doesn't know,...well" ...with some snickers from the courtroom.
Your heroine said "My husband is a good man and is sitting right over there. I left my job at the Bushwick Savings Bank in Brooklyn, N.Y. and since then we have raised 4 children." [ooooh! I just know she was seething when she said this!]
Judge: Well, that seems commendible. And tell us Mrs. Cowlan what is your opinion of alcohol and driving?"
My Heroine: "I am a teetotaler and I believe 'If you commit the crime...you should pay the time' unless you have someone in high places, then you can go Scott free."
JUDGE: "Well, I believe we won't need you Mrs. Cowlan. You're excused."
WOW! I was proud of her. And we walked out. Mother didn't want to be in that horrid old jury room anyway. [What was significant about that and the judge is that his son was involved in a drunk accident several years ago in which one of my former students and her sister were killed for failure to stop at a light, and drunk to boot.]
With that, we left, "free at last..Free at last, Thank God I'm free at last."
*Names changed
Hi Y'all:
Mother wanted me to pass on the exuberances of this a.m.
She had been selected for jury duty starting today so we promptly arrived at the court house around 9:00 a.m., went through the detector looking for hidden weapons and then upstairs to the jury room where we watched a film, watched several different people (i.e. court stenographer, a couple sherif deputies, the prosecution and the defense along with some young chap in a nice suit) under surviellance by a female deputy that was short, squat, and built very substantially.
"All Rise!" was the command as the honorable Peter Craft* entered the room. He made some announcements, explained what the rules wre for the court decorum and then called the first twelve potential jurors for examination.
Questions like:
State your name and pertinent information as to what you do, if employed.
How do you feel about drinking and driving?
How do you feel about sentencing and finding someone guilty?
Several answered how they were feeling, what experience they had with alcohol etc.
Out of twelve juriors, nine stayed and the rest were excused.
The second batch entered and they got pretty well cleaned out.
The third batch entered and then the fun began again. The judge would call each one by name and then start out asking questions.
"Elvira Coolan?" Elvira answered "ELVIRA COWLAN"
"Tell us a little bit about yourself, Mrs. Cowlan"
"I'm Elvira Cowlan, housewife, and have been married to the same man for 55 yrs."
The judge: "Well, I've been married for 48 years, but what my wife doesn't know,...well" ...with some snickers from the courtroom.
Your heroine said "My husband is a good man and is sitting right over there. I left my job at the Bushwick Savings Bank in Brooklyn, N.Y. and since then we have raised 4 children." [ooooh! I just know she was seething when she said this!]
Judge: Well, that seems commendible. And tell us Mrs. Cowlan what is your opinion of alcohol and driving?"
My Heroine: "I am a teetotaler and I believe 'If you commit the crime...you should pay the time' unless you have someone in high places, then you can go Scott free."
JUDGE: "Well, I believe we won't need you Mrs. Cowlan. You're excused."
WOW! I was proud of her. And we walked out. Mother didn't want to be in that horrid old jury room anyway. [What was significant about that and the judge is that his son was involved in a drunk accident several years ago in which one of my former students and her sister were killed for failure to stop at a light, and drunk to boot.]
With that, we left, "free at last..Free at last, Thank God I'm free at last."
*Names changed
April 23, 2006
The Sum of Life
My husband watched an episode of the show, The Sopranos. Why don't we have a television program named "The Counter Tenors"? How about "The Altos"? What would you name a television program that depicts your life?
On any given day I often ask my students to summarize what they've learned in class by providing a byline or title for what they've learned from the lecture in the style of some sensational magazine. Here are some examples: "Nanny Techniques Revealed!" or, "Encopresis Soon to be Extinct!" "I am Joe's neurosis." It's always fun to hear what they think about the counseling topics we discuss in class.
What title would do justice to the story of your life? I suppose this is the question that people have to answer when they decide on their own epitaph. What would you write about yourself? Would it be thought-provoking, serious, or funny? How about this epitaph?
It's not to be macabre that I bring this up, it's to facilitate thought about a number of things: the impact we leave on other people; how we think; how we live in relation to God and our intimate others; our opinions about issues--what would it be for you?
On any given day I often ask my students to summarize what they've learned in class by providing a byline or title for what they've learned from the lecture in the style of some sensational magazine. Here are some examples: "Nanny Techniques Revealed!" or, "Encopresis Soon to be Extinct!" "I am Joe's neurosis." It's always fun to hear what they think about the counseling topics we discuss in class.
What title would do justice to the story of your life? I suppose this is the question that people have to answer when they decide on their own epitaph. What would you write about yourself? Would it be thought-provoking, serious, or funny? How about this epitaph?
Here lies Ann Mann,
Who lived an old maid
But died an old Mann.
Dec. 8, 1767
Who lived an old maid
But died an old Mann.
Dec. 8, 1767
(more epitaphs here)
It's not to be macabre that I bring this up, it's to facilitate thought about a number of things: the impact we leave on other people; how we think; how we live in relation to God and our intimate others; our opinions about issues--what would it be for you?
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