A new mantra:

You know how to give and receive loads of love! You’re a kind-spirited individual with a heart of gold who stands up for what you believe in! You always find the good in every situation, even when things seem difficult. You let your heart guide you through life and are open to new, fun experiences! 

---

Wouldn’t it be the all-time best if this were true about you and me?

Looking for the good in every situation is not an easy task. That’s an understatement. Often it requires big dose of forgiveness. I’m slow to forgive. I admit it. I am getting better, no doubt, but I am still a diamond in the rough where forgiveness is concerned. I find it hard to forgive myself, let alone others. So this is another place for my energy to go. Focus on forgiveness and find the good in everything.

I’m going to tack this little paragraph up on my mirror to remind myself of these things. I like how its worded as if it were a done deal.

Maybe someday I can look at myself in the mirror and repeat the mantra and it will be 100% true.

I’m already pretty good at the “heart guiding” part. I’m going to work harder on the rest of it. How about you?

We know how to give and receive loads of

Yeah, that’s us!

 

who knew?

i just knew it,

it’s news to me

i don’t know how i knew it,

it’s not new

are you new?

i knew it

---

i know

no, no, no you don’t know

the more you know

i know no time that you didn’t know

to know you is to love you, no?

---

the farther i go

the further away from you i am

tell me, how much farther is it?

we will go no further with this discussion

furthermore…

we will go no farther on this trip

---

you’re starting to bother me

your lousy attitude is making me crazy

it’s your turn to go

you’re the one who has to go

when you’re with me i wish your lips were on mine

you’re here with your hat in your hand

---

wait for it

put your weight into it

it’s my way or the highway

it’s way cool how the scale will weigh

when you weigh yourself

the way i see it

you weigh so little

wait, don’t tell your weight

no way

yes, weigh

---

their town is that town over there

there is their town that they’re going to visit

there are more places

they’re going more places

their plan is to go more places

they’re going to that town over there to visit their friends

so there

---

who’s going to win the Seahawks game?

who’s in line?

whose line is it?

we found out who’s here and whose friends are here

who’s here and whose house is it?

whose owl is crying whooooo?

who’s on first?

---

the beat goes on

who likes the beet soup?

it beats me who likes beet soup

don’t beat up the cook who uses beets

---

i’m here now

can you hear me now?

i can hear you over here

but are you here?

here is where you’ll hear the best

This piece is a vignette. It’s fiction and takes place when phones were connected to the wall and had rotary dials.  If you remember those old days, you remember my old days! You only “hear” one voice. Here’s hoping you enjoy a moment back in time.

 

 

Phone Call from Long Ago

 

 

Hi Carol.

What? Well, don’t ask me. I don’t know much of anything, unless you count the 20 words that I spelled correctly once in the fourth grade in Mrs. Myers’s class. Did you have her?

No? Well, she was a piece of work, I’ll tell ya. I think she was a vegetarian before there even were any vegetarians.  Poor Mrs. Myers probably never had a steak smothered in steak sauce.

What was it you wanted to know?

Are you for real? What came first?

That’s what you want to know, weirdo? Is it so important that you interrupt my perfectly wonderful Saturday afternoon, asking what came first, the chicken or the egg?

Yeah, I know you’re funny.

I don’t think true vegetarians eat eggs, so Mrs. Myers probably never had an egg in her life either.

It’s a shame. I agree. Deviled eggs, egg salad, poached eggs, scrambled with cheese—all so divine.

Quit asking me that. I’m fairly certain nobody knows the answer. You’re weird. Who cares? For your information, that’s actually what they call a rhetorical question. It’s only supposed to make you think. That’s what I think.

Mrs. Myers told us she wanted all of us to think. She didn’t tell us what to think either. I started thinking my dad is a creep (and it turns out I’m right). I’m actually pretty sure she wasn’t suggesting I should be thinking about my dad being a creep. But he is one. He picks the zits on his back at the breakfast table.

Yes, I’m serious. You’re right. He’s gross and disgusting. Like I said, he’s a creep.

Your dad is a creep too? I suppose we both have creeps for dads. We have a lot in common, ya know? Some dads are really cool though. Stephanie’s dad is really cool. She told me that in homeroom one day last week. He’s having a swimming pool built for her. That’s so cool.

My dad would never let us get a swimming pool. He says it’s too much trouble and then he told me I’m not worth the trouble.

That’s what he said. I’m dyin’ if I’m lyin’. And listen to this: just yesterday he said he forbids me to wear lipstick to school. He thinks I’m too young to wear make-up. What a creep.

No, I don’t have any idea why he thinks a 13 year old is too young.  That reminds me, I’ve been meaning to ask you: what is your favorite lipstick color?

Really? Dramatic Red? Oh yeah, now that I think of it, you do look super good in red lipstick. I could never wear red lipstick. I absolutely love Dreamy Pink. It makes me look so pretty. It makes me look innocent too. I am innocent (until proven guilty).

That was a joke, stupid. You’re supposed to laugh.

Oh shoot! Sorry, but I have to get off the phone now because my dad (the creep) needs to call one of his stupid clients. He says I have to hang up now so he can use the phone. God, I wish we could have two phones like Stephanie’s family does.

He’s yelling at me again. Can you hear him?

Yeah, see what I mean? Shoot. I gotta go, okay?

Okay. I’ll call you later.

 

 

Note: I wrote this some months ago and I posted it on my Facebook page. Since then, one of my friends has died of her cancers–brain and lung. Another of my dear friends has decided to forego anymore chemo and is working on her bucket list. I admire her for her grace and courage, among other things, that make her the truly remarkable woman she is. Our Baja buddy was cancer free for about a year, but is once again “dancing” with cancer (as he puts it), trying to put an end to it once and for all. Now it is my father-in-law who has been given the news of his liver cancer. He, too, is demonstrating grace and courage, mixed with a lot of pragmatism. Again, I am in awe. And my heart breaks.

 

---

 

I’ve spent a lot of time lately thinking about death, more importantly, what happens to those left behind. I am at an age now when people in my inner circle are sucking in their last breaths. By my current standards, these people are too young to die.  Not too many years ago 65 was considered borrowed time. No more. Whatever the reasons, and there are many, we humans are living a lot longer.

My own mom is 98 with a strong heart and super low cholesterol. She says she’s ready to die, prays daily that this day will be her last, but for brunch every day, she eats her fresh fruit, yogurt and cottage cheese after swallowing a minimum of 10 vitamins and other supplements. When questioned about this irony, her reply is simple and sensible: “I’m ready to die, but I want to feel good while I’m still here.” This is the woman who taught me the importance of having and keeping a good sense of humor in order to keep things in perspective.

While cancer continues to ravage the bodies of so many of my friends, I find myself feeling blessed with my health one moment, and scared shitless the next. Will I become the next cancer victim? Will it be my husband who is besieged with a terminal illness? One of my children? What would life be like without them? How would I deal with the death of someone so close?

I shudder to think of it, and I try to push the fear and anxiety from my consciousness. I get better at doing this until I learn of another friend’s passing. How can you console those who have just lost a loved one? Their pain is raw. One widower I know explained that losing his wife of 42 years was surreal. Another man whose wife took care of all the business end of their lives for 44 years, must now learn to navigate in situations previously foreign AND deal with the loss of the woman who was his wife, his best friend and his lover. How can they find solace?

In our relationships we develop patterns and we adopt roles of responsibility. When our spouses die, we not only lose our partners in the business of living, but suffer the loss of companionship as well. No wonder we find ourselves living a surreal existence. The rug has been pulled from beneath our feet. The rules have changed.

And we must also take care of death certificates, wills, distributing property, and tending to the deceased’s wishes about cremation or burial, and to have a service, or not have a service. These things cost money and many times there have been no provisions made for these expenditures. If there were medical treatments, the bills will continue to arrive. There are people to contact, an obituary to write. The paperwork involved requires a clear head at a time when we are anything but clear headed. When my stepfather passed on the last day of May, we had to send his social security payment back to the government for the whole month of May. The cruel irony is that he died one day too soon to keep his last payment.

After a dear one dies, grief becomes our tormentor and no amount of slamming our fists, howling or crying can bring enough relief.  Certainly some who survive their loved ones will have family and friends they can rely on. But sooner or later everyone goes home to carry on, and what you’re left with is a broken heart. I doubt anyone is prepared for what emotions come next, and certainly we have not been given a course in how to survive our loss. We must take one day at a time, and put one foot in front of the other.

For me I imagine the ache I would feel at reaching for my husband at night in bed and finding his side empty. Even that small gesture and feeling his warmth has given me comfort many nights when I’ve struggled to sleep. This makes me think of all the little things we share that I would miss. Sometimes it just boils down to appreciating the little things in life. I want to slow down and take them all in—to accept the small joys of being alive and share them with my husband. I want to learn to savor these moments, to be more loving and slower to anger. To taste life before it swallows him or me up.

There may be no discernible life after death. That debate is for others, not me. For now all I can do is hold those I have lost in my heart, and try to be there for others who have lost those they love. And it occurs to me that while we remain blessed to be alive, we have the ability, maybe even the duty, to be more appreciative, to take pleasure in a sunset, share a laugh, help others, take our vitamins, give compliments, forgive, and best of all to hold each other close. While we still can.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Today I resolve to stop looking for happiness. I will stop trying to make happiness too.

Instead I’m  just going to allow happiness to find me.

I know it will find me because when I quit trying,

it shows up dancing around my door.

It flies in through the windows and swirls around me

every single day.

 

Happiness found me yesterday when my dog and I were walking on the beach. There! Right in front of our eyes were about 75 baby turtles on their way to the ocean. 75 of them!!! I helped some of them to get out of the ruts left by trucks driving on the beach. (damn trucks). The little turtles were climbing in the ruts and falling back into the depths of the tracks. Some of them were overturned and couldn’t right themselves. But…Whoopee! Susie to the rescue. Those adorable little guys came to show me that perseverance pays off. They visited me with their joy of being born and finding their way to their home in the water. A beautiful and sacred rite of passage and I was a witness (though without my camera).

 

 

This morning happiness found Greg and me again on the beach when we witnessed whales spouting and jumping in the ocean.

Two of our dear friends and their little dog were on the beach too, and we walked together, the four of us and our dogs. We spoke of the news of their baby that is “on the way,” and how the papa-to-be just came back from the States loaded up with “baby things!” Things like car seats, baby bath tubs…oh the happiness in their faces and their voices.

 

See?

You don’t have to look for happiness.

You don’t have to work at making your happiness either.

Just allow it to come.

It will.

It will come to you every day.

(It’s up to you to recognize it).

######

Three things you can’t get back:

Words

#

Time

#

Opportunity

#

Life is like a bank account;

you can only withdraw what you put in.

########

 

“Curva peligrosa” the sign warns. I see this sign a lot during the drive from Todos Santos to Cabo San Lucas. In fact, dangerous curves abound on the entire Baja peninsula. I slow down. I don’t take the curve at high speed. I’m diligent when I’m driving. I pay attention.

I have seen lots of highway warning signs and heeded them.  Why not heed life’s little warning signs?

 

Often I’m a bonehead and an ignoramus who would rather not do any serious heeding. That would just be too wise, and apparently, I am not that wise.  Oh, I do learn. Of that you can rest assured. It may take me a quarter of a century or so, maybe two quarters of a century, but I finally get the picture, the drift, the skinny! And with one lesson learned I move on to another and another.

I have learned that men do not generally enjoy sitting around talking about their feelings, let alone showing them, or even merely contemplating them. I realize that men have feelings, but they just don’t seem as intense about their feelings as women. Especially in the romance category. We like to show our feelings, to wallow in them. We sort them out like we sort the laundry. Whites in this load, colors in that load, and towels in yet another.

For the most part, men aren’t romantic creatures. Time is better spent watching cars go around and around a track, or people clobbering each other with sticks on an ice skating rink. “Get me a beer, will ya please, honey? The Seahawks are actually ahead and getting ready to make a first down.”

 

 

I should have caught on a lot sooner.  In 7^th grade I had a boyfriend named Roy. For celebrating Valentine’s Day I bought matching shirts for us. It seemed the very logical thing to do. We were madly in love, so we should dress alike. HA! It would tell the world of our love. It did not bother Roy to “forget” to wear the shirt to school on Valentine’s Day. While I was crushed, he shrugged it off.  “No big deal,” he said. The other girls were disappointed too. None of our guys wore their shirts. I’m reminded of Bill Engvall, “Here’s your sign!”

For years I went around expecting my boyfriends to show their feelings of love for me.  And better yet, I expected them to show me how much they cared about my feelings of love for them.  Seldom did they oblige. Wait. There was one boyfriend who did, but most of them went out of their way to be cool as cucumbers. Cool as menthol cigarettes. All (except one) of those boyfriends mostly neglected showing feelings of passion or love or any of that silly romance stuff.

So why did I expect my husband to be any different? I think we covered that when I told you I was a bonehead, an ignoramus. It wasn’t until we’d been married about 15 years that I realized how ridiculous my expectations were. I started to look at this whole idea of showing one’s feelings in a whole new light. I don’t know if it was just that he wore me down, or what it was. I don’t know. But I simply gave up the idea that romance was in his vocabulary. He isn’t going to comment on my hair after I come home from my hair appointment either.

Instead of wishing for certain scenarios, I began to focus on the many nice things he did for me. Sometimes he’d call me just before leaving work and ask if I needed anything at the store. While I’m fixing dinner, he may slap my backside. He scolds me for not making an appointment for my annual mammogram. He does nice little things like that all the time.

Maybe I paid no attention to those little warning signs in my youth, but I finally learned. I decided I didn’t need him to be Casanova. Instead of hoping he’ll remember our anniversary, I remind him in a very overt way that our anniversary is in two weeks. ”Only two shopping weeks left,” I’ll say. He hasn’t forgotten a single anniversary since. He writes something sweet inside a funny card, and buys some flowers or chocolate or both. Because I tell him these are the things I want, he happily obliges. And it’s okay. I like it a lot better this way. He does too.

All my life I’ve heard rumors, rumors, rumors!

In 6^th grade: I hear that Carol has already started her period (lucky).  Mikal is really a boy, not a girl; Patsy has seen her naked (really?). French kissing is when you twirl your tongue around your kissing partner’s tongue (ick)

 

In 7th grade: I hear that Vicki & Ginny have practiced French kissing with each other (gross). Barbara’s nickname is BJ because she gives blow jobs to the boys (what is a blow job?). Our gym teacher is a lesbo (Huh? What’s that?)

 

In 8^th grade: I hear that Joni wears a padded bra (I have convinced my friends to sneeze ACHOO! when she’s around and exclaim, “Oh, sorry, I’m allergic to foam rubber…ACHOO!” This gets me in trouble with the girls’  dean and Mother.  She writes her lecture to me in a letter. “How COULD you? I didn’t bring you up to start a hate campaign!” She’s right, of course, and I feel awful. ACHOO!)

 

In 9th grade: I hear that being accepted into the Serenes is better than being accepted into the Gad-A-Debs. (But these are the social groups in high school, and I’m in 9^th which is still in junior high. They actually have names for their cliques in high school? Oh God, I’m so nervous about going to high school). The boys have a club too. The Toppers are the only really cool guys. They are all exceptionally cute. (How many are in this club? Will they like me?)

 

In 10^th grade: I hear that you should join as many activity clubs as you can—it will mean you are very, very cool. (I wanna be cool. I’m joining!) In order to be popular, you must be cool first. (I want so much to be cool and popular.) Girls who have a lot of outfits, get their hair done in a salon are pretty and thin are the only ones who get dates (I’m sunk!) If a Topper asks you out, you are automatically popular (I have a boyfriend who is a Topper!!! I’m popular!!)

 

In 11^th grade: I hear that Mr. Franks puts cute girls in the front row so he can look up their skirts (I’m glad I don’t have that lecher for a teacher). Robbie referred to me as “a pink elephant” yesterday. (That’s what Jan told me today. I was wearing a pink dress, but I’m not fat!!! I hate Robbie.)

 

In 12^th grade: I hear that Mr. Stolls has a crush on one of his students (who is she? Vicki asks me to drive her to the mall to meet Mr. Stolls. I refuse…Oh my God, they really are seeing each other? This is so gross.) Being on the drill team means you are a dork (That’s for sure!) Being a cheerleader means you are the coolest (Just in case that’s more than just talk, I’m glad I’m the head cheerleader). Not having a boyfriend who has a bitchin car means you aren’t worth the space you take up on the earth (can this possibly be true? How can having a bitchin car make you better than someone else? In any case I’m sure glad my boyfriend has a bitchin ’53 Chevy). Get your picture in the annual (yearbook) as many times as possible because it validates your worth (I actually counted how many times I was in the annual. I was even counting the one where you could only see my arm on Bobby’s shoulder at the ASB Ball, and I’m in there 35 times.) Girls have to be a size 6, have perfect skin, big boobs, be pretty, and marry someone who has money (Otherwise forget it? This must be why I am full of angst.)

 

In young adulthood: I hear that Richard Nixon is a God, Richard Nixon is a crook,  Abby Hoffman is in danger of being shot by the FBI, JFK had an affair with Marilyn Monroe, The Kennedys had Marilyn Monroe killed (or was it the FBI?). The CIA contracted to have JFK killed. The CIA contracted to have MLK, Jr. killed. There are beings from other galaxies (Sometimes I think I’m one of them.)

It doesn’t matter how old we are; rumors feed us. Yum yum.Why else would there be rags like the National Enquirer, US, People, Star, or TV shows like Fox News, Evening Tonight, or talk radio, Rush Limbaugh, et. al., not to mention all the celebrity gossip, etc.? What is Justin Bieber up to now?

Love may make the world go ‘round, but rumors make our heads spin.

Rumors have the muscle to change the course of people’s lives.

Maybe it’s a good thing to learn the power of a rumor at a young age, as long as you also learn that listening to rumors may be hazardous to your well being and the well being of others.

What kind of person are you? Are you kind to strangers, find pleasure in helping those in need, considerate of your neighbors, a steward of the earth, and loving to your family? Do you give of yourself even when it isn’t convenient, and do you nurture those you love even though they may not always show appreciation for your tenderness?

 

I know some special people who exemplify all that is good. While not without fault, these wonderful beings are for the most part joyful, warmhearted, and loving. They will bring their special brand of kindness to bear in difficult situations, think before they speak, and graciously give of their time to be there for others.

 

There are those who love to gossip, celebrate when others fail, and don’t mind their tongues. They seem to take our sunshine away, don’t they? These individuals may be quick to find fault in others, lack consideration, laugh when others fall, and maybe value money above all else. They will be nice to your face, but not hesitate to disrespect you behind your back.

 

None of us are perfect. But the problem I have in this moment is the realization that cancer doesn’t care what kind of person you are.

Cancer strikes good people. Cancer moves in without regard to how many karma points you may have built up.

 

Sometimes I feel it is invading the lives of good people more often than the “other” kind, and I have to say I’m angry about this. I’m at a loss for what to say or what to do when a friend loses a spouse, a child, a mother, father, brother, sister or other family member to cancer. Cancer has claimed good people who would give you whatever you need, whenever you need it.

 

Because cancer doesn’t care.

 

It is not that I wish this horrible condition on people I deem as “not good” or that I believe anyone is deserving to be invaded by this sinister disease. Not at all, but I just get so angry when cancer happens to good people. And then I cry for my friends whose lives have been taken and for others who are left to mourn their loved ones.

 

I was captain of a Relay for Life team in Washington State for five years. My teammates and I raised a lot of money for the American Cancer Society. We came together to show cancer that we do care. It was a precious 24 hours that made us feel we were doing something positive, together with the people who donated to the cause.

 

We gave our teams funny, clever names, sometimes with a name to honor a cancer survivor, or someone who didn’t survive, and together we put up tables and tents around the track where we camped for the duration of the relay. Some years during the relay it rained and the wind blew. We kept walking.

My team was named “Nickerson’s Knights” for our colleague, Frank, who had stage 3 colon cancer. He has been cancer free for over five years now. Yay!

In the first lap we celebrated survivors! When darkness came, we lighted the luminaries to honor those who were survivors and for those whose lives were taken by cancer.

 

At least one team member had to be on the track at all times in that 24 hours of Relay for Life. We relayers held hands, walked together or alone, shared stories, laughed and cried for those who died and those who were in the midst of dealing with cancer. We showed we cared the only way we knew how—raising money and walking and running around a track.

 

A few of the relayers from Kamiak High School

 

Not a single person I know has not been somehow touched by cancer. We have all lost someone we have cared about. We loved them and now we miss them. We all know people who are living with it right now. We think about them and we do what we can to let them know we care, because cancer doesn’t care.

 

 

 

I’m going to leave you with two questions:

1. What are we, individually or collectively, capable of doing to rid the world of cancer?

2. What can we do to ease the pain of those whose lives have been touched by cancer?

 

 

 

My obsession with the English language is a form of obsessive compulsive disorder. That’s what my girlfriend, Donna, recently told me. I’ve heard that before.

Is it my fault that I get upset when people say things like, “I seen that,” or “There wasn’t much people there,” or how about when someone writes, “Your a happy person.” That one really gets me. I find myself yelling, “It’s the contraction you want, YOU’RE, not the possessive pronoun, YOUR.”

Oh, and guess what? A lot =two words. It isn’t alot. Is it a lot to ask that you write it as two words? I used to ask my students, “Do you write a little as one word?”

The English language is a living language, so the common practices sometimes find their way into our lexicon. I predict that in my lifetime, the two words a lot, when used to mean a great number, will be acceptable written as a single word. I will have to get over it. Let it go. Oh heaven forbid.

Don’t get me wrong. I make plenty of errors. Big mistakes and itsy bitsy ones too. (That’s too as in also or excessive…not to, the preposition as in I went to the park).

People look at me funny when I tell them that I actually read the dictionary. I start to look up a word, and something on the page catches my eye and I start reading. Don’t you do that? One day I was looking up a word I didn’t know (there are many of those), and I read the definition for moot. What an eye-opener. I will bet you a million dollars that 99 of 100 people use that word incorrectly.

Moot

Contrary to common misuse, “moot” doesn’t imply something is superfluous. It means a subject is disputable or open to discussion. e.g., The idea that commercial zoning should be allowed in the residential neighborhood was a moot point for the council.

Here’s a test for you:

Correct? Incorrect?

Everybody must bring their own lunch to the meeting.

As an English teacher I spent hours reading my students’ writing and using my green, blue, or purple pen (red gets a bad rap) to give them feedback. It was the worst part of my job. It was my responsibility to actually teach these wonderful children how to communicate in writing, do it well, pass the WA State assessment of writing, and move on into the world with a sharpened pencil. It was my job to find mistakes and help my students not to make them. I took my responsibility seriously. Just ask them.

Okay, back to your test. If the subject is singular, the pronoun, to which it refers, must be singular.

 EVERYBODY is singular. That, in itself, may be news to you. But it is singular. Consequently, the correct way to write this is:

Everybody must bring his or her own lunch to the meeting. 

It sounds a bit awkward, with “his or her,” but it is correct. I suggest you find another way to get that information across so as to avoid having to use his or her. How about a simple, straightforward directive, “Bring your own lunch to the meeting.”

You can only imagine how much fun it was to be fifteen, in my sophomore English class, and having to put up with me constantly going on about such matters. Teen-agers spend a lot of time thinking about themselves–how they look in the mirror, how they look to each other, when is the next party, who will be at the next party, who likes them, who doesn’t like them, among many other things. Using good conventions in writing isn’t high on their list of things to think about. I had to be sneaky and creative.

For example, PUNCTUATION DOES MAKE A DIFFERENCE:

WOMAN WITHOUT HER MAN IS NOTHING.

or

WOMAN, WITHOUT HER, MAN IS NOTHING.

You see how two commas make such a big difference?

Writing well isn’t merely mastering the WRITING CONVENTIONS; there are a lot of other issues. The use of proper grammar, punctuation, spelling, and word usage are only a small part of what it takes to become a good writer. But I’m not going into the rest of it right now. Maybe another day.

Don’t think I can’t hear you sighing with relief.

Normally, fish is the only meat I consume, and while I’m not a vegetarian in the strict sense, I haven’t had red meat in 36 years. The sight of rare prime rib makes me nauseous. Most people love the smell of bacon frying. Not me. I have a problem with the odor and with the annoying, hot grease that spatters from the pan when you cook it. When I quit eating meat it had nothing to do with the inhumane ways of raising and slaughtering animals. I was not one of those nuts running around sobbing about cruelty to animals. I just didn’t like the taste of meat. In the years since I gave up red meat, I have learned a lot about the raising and slaughtering of animals so that we humans can have a nice pork chop, a rib eye, or a pepperoni pizza.

 

One such lesson came from Newsweek.  When I used to read Newsweek, one of my favorite features was the “My Turn” essay. These are essays from ordinary people who write about a topic of their choice. Many of the pieces are educational, teaching me something or requiring me to think about something in a new way. I found enjoyment reading these interesting, enlightening, sometimes amusing or sad essays. The one that sticks with me the most was written by a not-so-ordinary citizen. One of eleven children, Bobby and Ethel Kennedy’s son, Robert Kennedy Jr., wrote his essay to make the case against our country’s industrialized pig farming. This exposé falls into the category of shocking enlightenment for me. Kennedy’s sensory language described the insidious practice of holding the hogs in cages with no room to turn around, squealing sows barely able to birth their litters in these confined spaces, and their waste dropping through the holes in the steel floors, which in turn flow into acres of pig excrement lagoons.

 

His prose conjured a stench enough to induce vomiting. His word pictures were enough for me. Because of his essay, there is a part of me that chooses not to eat pork mainly because of the practices of industrialized farms. I was teaching high school English at the time I first read Kennedy’s essay, and I gave my students the assignment to read, discuss and then write a response to it. The experience of reading, talking and then writing about industrialized pig farming was not enough to make my sophomores give up their BLTs or to stop eating sausage, but that was not my goal.

 

As critical thinkers, we must examine the many sides of an issue. Could my students open their eyes and minds to the evils of industrialized farming? Or at the very least give some thought to how much farming practices have changed over the last century? Are some practices better than others? Whatever happened to the family farm? What are the experts saying? It seems that there are a lot of people wondering about these important issues. And while I am no authority on this topic, it seems that since the time of his essay in Newsweek, Kennedy has become quite the authority.

 

Many more people are whooping and hollering about the evils of industrial pig farming because they are listening to the many who are authorities on the subject. Maybe you want to know what they are saying. If so, watch the documentary, Pig Business. Go ahead. Put down your ham sandwich and watch it. Or go online and read about the big business of pig business. Look at the pictures. I dare you. Familiarizing yourself about this issue might just make you squeal like a pig.

Read more:   http://nationalhogfarmer.com/mag/farming_waterkeeper_lawsuits_target