Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter. — Martin Luther King, Jr.

Dr. Martin Luther KingMamacita says:  Why is this day a holiday in most communities? (This community has only just recently started acknowledging MLK Day as a holiday; for years, none of our schools closed.) (They still don’t close for Veteran’s Day.)  (The colleges, businesses, and guv’ment offices are closed – the public schools here are open.)

However, intelligent, sensitive, educated people understand that today deserves respect because a man who dedicated his entire life to peaceful means of acquiring freedom for all people fully deserves to be recognized, and there are still, shamefully, communities that do not consider this of any importance. Making it a holiday forces people to look at his name on their calendar, if nothing else.

If he had advocated violence, it would have been different. Violence does not deserve recognition. If he had advocated “something for nothing,” it would have been different. Bums do not deserve recognition.

But Dr. Martin Luther King advocated equal rights for all people, not just for whites and not just for blacks and not just for whites & blacks. He dedicated his life to gaining equal rights for EVERYONE.

And I can’t help but listen to a speaker with such beautiful grammar. His grammar enhances his message.

May we all have this same dream.

Careful, grammatically-correct language and an almost poetic speaking style will always get my attention.  It’s an assumption on my part, of course, but I associate good grammar with people who actually know what they’re talking about.  In fact, I am convinced that this is so.

Martin Luther King, Jr. definitely knew what he was talking about, and he knew HOW to present it.

====Martin Luther King, Jr., hate, let no man

Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that. — Martin Luther King, Jr.

I have decided to stick with love. Hate is too great a burden to bear. — Martin Luther King, Jr.

The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy. — Martin Luther King, Jr.

Nothing in the world is more dangerous than sincere ignorance and conscientious stupidity. — Martin Luther King, Jr.

Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter. — Martin Luther King, Jr.

We must develop and maintain the capacity to forgive. He who is devoid of the power to forgive is devoid of the power to love. There is some good in the worst of us and some evil in the best of us. When we discover this, we are less prone to hate our enemies. — Martin Luther King, Jr.

The function of education is to teach one to think intensively and to think critically. Intelligence plus character – that is the goal of true education. — Martin Luther King, Jr.

A nation that continues year after year to spend more money on military defense than on programs of social uplift is approaching spiritual doom. — Martin Luther King, Jr.

He who passively accepts evil is as much involved in it as he who helps to perpetrate it. He who accepts evil without protesting against it is really cooperating with it. — Martin Luther King, Jr.

History will have to record that the greatest tragedy of this period of social transition was not the strident clamor of the bad people, but the appalling silence of the good people. — Martin Luther King, Jr.

Rarely do we find men who willingly engage in hard, solid thinking. There is an almost universal quest for easy answers and half-baked solutions. Nothing pains some people more than having to think. — Martin Luther King, Jr.

Opinionated Rant and a Question

Just don't pick your nose. Don't do it.

Rant.  Opinionated rant.

Mamacita says:  Let’s start the New Year with some opinionated rants and a question.  Here’s the question first:  Who are the A-list bloggers/social media people?  I know who’s not on that list.

Me.

I’m not on the cool kid list.  I’ve never been on a list for cool people.  Ever.

But I don’t care.  Really, I don’t.  I have my own interpretation of what that list would mean and the kind of people who would be on it.

ARE on it, I mean.

The kind of people who are on the cool kids list – a list of actually, genuinely cool people, that is.

Nice people.  Kind people.  Honest people.  Funny people.  Snarky people.  People with a wicked sense of humor.  People who are trustworthy, and reliable, and  don’t cut in line.  The kind of people who let others sit by them, or with them, or near them, no matter who or what they are.

Maybe even, people who don’t mind if I sit by them.

I am not an A-list blogger/social network updater.  I am an old-school blogger.  I joined Twitter and Facebook that first year they existed.  I’ve been here a while.  On my own blog, if I mention a place or product or service, it’s because I own it or like it or have been there, and it’s not for money.  I don’t make money as myself.  I write about myself, and things I like or just want to write about. Elsewhere, I do a lot of writing for clients, but that is quite a separate thing.

I’ve always been more than just a little bit quirky and nerdy, and I still am. I don’t care. I’ve never been cool. Not then, not now. I don’t care. (much)

In my Reader/friend list/etc. are people whose writing I read regularly. Are they A-listers? I don’t know. I don’t care, either. They are people I like, and even love, with blogs/updates/etc. I find interesting.  Their Twitter threads are interesting.  Their Facebook updates tell me about their lives, and their interests, and their opinions.  None of those has to be exactly like mine.  How boring would THAT be?  It is our differences that make life interesting.  We don’t have to agree on everything to be friends, real friends.

Would I delete any of them, and replace them with A-list people, so there would be nothing but the cool kids in my Reader/Facebook/Twitter/etc.? No. Why would I do that? I don’t write to be cool. (good thing, huh.) I write because “it’s” in me and “it” wants to get out. I love keeping up with people on Twitter.  I love learning about people’s lives on Facebook.  I wish more people still blogged, but I understand that decision, too.  I still blog, along with all those other platforms, but that is MY decision.  My blog is like a friend. It’s THERE for me. And since I went all WordPress years ago, it really IS always there for me. I also blog for businesses.  I go all watchdog on their comments, too, but I only delete the spams, robots, and obvious sales pitches.

The people I follow are friends.  They listen. I listen. They help. I help. We laugh and we cry and we are THERE for each other.   I include all my business blogs and clients – you might be surprised at the connections to be made that way.

What, she mixes business and pleasure?  She does indeed.  Much of the time, too.

She considers her clients to be friends?  She does that, too.  She’s crazy about ’em, in fact.

The internet is full of friends, seen and unseen, business and pleasure.  Both kinds are real. I consider them all to be real life friends.  People who don’t believe internet friends are real, true friends are hanging out at the wrong table.

Nosepicking is just nasty.

Nosepicking is just nasty.

Sometimes we pick our friends and sometimes they pick us. (insert crack about picking nose here) This holds true wherever we go. The internet is a place to go. There are lovely people there. There are also some awful people here.  You know, just like in real life.  That’s because the internet – the parts where we interact in each other’s lives – IS real life.

Delete an active blog from my list of regular reads?  Remove someone from my Twitter or Facebook account?   Delete someone who comments sincerely?  Delete a real person, someone who isn’t a robot, and who updates/comments in real time?  Why would I do that?  Why would I pare down a list for my personal convenience at the expense of possibly hurting someone’s feelings?

Nobody can ever have too many friends. And I’m still discovering treasures out there. Why would I stop mining for gold just because I found some already? In fact, if anyone is reading this and you know I don’t know you yet, tell me. I’m happy to meet you, and of COURSE you can sit with us.

Sometimes I read about someone going through his/her Reader/Twitter/Facebook/etc. and weeding out anyone who isn’t considered ‘popular’ by other bloggers, or who isn’t, apparently, useful enough. Some bloggers only want to hang out with the A-group. I can only assume they were like that in high school, too, and haven’t grown out of it yet, still, in real life. And I find this attitude sad, and even. . . . sick.  Okay, the word I’m actually thinking of is “pompous.”

The A table!

The A table!

I am not an A-list blogger. I’m often one of the first to be cut. That’s fine. Populate your feeds with well-known A-table people and see how many comments you get – that aren’t strictly business – from them. See how much advice and support you get. See how they will get to know you personally, and want to hang out with you. And when you comment on some of those A-list blogs. . . . oh, but wait a minute. Some of those blogs don’t ALLOW comments.

Don’t you get it? REAL bloggers welcome comments, and not just from people they know. Not from spammers or morons, but from real people who take notice and care. Many of those A-list blogs aren’t even real blogs any more; they’re just webpages with articles and self-promotion and speaking engagements and product endorsements and money-spinners.

Preaching to the choir is fine if you really don’t want to learn anything new from someone who isn’t already IN the choir.

But that’s okay. You’ve a right to please yourself; we all do. So delete everybody who isn’t ‘somebody.’ And yes, I know, that would be me. Go ahead.

That’s not how I do this, but we are all different. Sometimes, discovering just HOW different, in certain ways, is more than just a little bit disillusioning.

Sometimes it’s a LOT of disillusioning.

Losers.

Losers.

Do we EVER get to leave high school, I mean completely? Why is this nonsense still going on, and why is it still bothering me?

But it is. And it does. I wish I could say it didn’t, but it does. It even, kinda, you know, hurts.

But that’s okay. I understand. I’ll just take my bag lunch and go sit at another table.

You sit there and wait for the cheerleaders and the jocks and the student council president and the homecoming queen and people who can do something for you, and while you’re waiting for them, the rest of us will be sitting over HERE. And we will be having way more fun than you.

What do I know. I’m not cool.

But I know what the “social” in “social media” means.  And it doesn’t mean excluding people.  Well, unless they’re proven sociopaths, axe murderers, compulsive liars, dirty rotten scoundrels (although some of those guys are kinda fun), simpering morons, people who get in the “20 items or fewer” with a mounded cartful, Trump supporters, litterbugs, vandals, line cutters, or sissy sparkly vampires.  (brooding vampires welcome.)

Spades. I'll go alone.

Spades. I’ll go alone.

Move over, B-table friends.  It’s my deal.  Double-bid, no-trump, high-low euchre, coming right up.  Pass the SweeTarts.  And yes, we’re all really listening.

Holidays Should Be About Love

Mamacita says: Holidays should be about love, not resentment.  Holidays should be about charity, the original, true meaning of charity, which is that same love.  Love – charity – should not be limited by yours or anyone else’s belief system.  Love is love.  Put limitations on it and it’s no longer pure, and if it’s not pure, it’s not love. All seasons are about love, and no season of love is ever over.  Whether or not you celebrate Christmas has nothing whatsoever to do with being Santa Claus for someone. Call it whatever you wish: just call it something, and go forth and do it. Letting your soul curl up into a ball of resentment because YOUR religion, or lack of such, doesn’t “do” Christmas is a waste of time, a waste of emotion, a waste of heart, a waste of zeal, and a waste of YOU.

Charity means love.

Charity means love.

“Charity” doesn’t mean “giving to the poor and needy;” it means LOVE, and love covers all bases. Using a belief system to rationalize your own personal whatevers is a cop-out, plain and simple. There are people out there who need you, and to walk on by because they said or did something that “offended” you is . . . okay, I’ll say it: it’s evil. Selfish and evil.

What do we live for, if it is not to make life less difficult for each other? — George Eliot

The three stages of man:

1. He believes in Santa Claus

2. He doesn’t believe in Santa Claus

3. He IS Santa Claus.

Good parents ARE Santa Claus

Good parents ARE Santa Claus

That struck me as being funny, and true. And also, even, a little bit sad, and I’m not sure why. Poignancy is always a combination of emotions, and knowing something wonderful is temporary makes us sad, even while we revel in it.

I am Santa Claus. And I do NOT want to ever let the people I love down, at Christmas or any other time. But I also realize that the people we love most have the most potential for hurting. And for being hurt. Any people who are emotionally involved have tremendous power over each other. I hope we all try to use that power only for good.

You know, like Superman. Superman used his powers for good. Unless he was under the influence of kryptonite, in which case he became a flying armageddon. I’ve met many human kryptonite chunks, working tirelessly to promote only their own beliefs and working just as tirelessly to tear down everybody else’s. They work so hard at destroying that they’ve no time left for building up.

Let us never allow the influence of ‘something else’ to turn us into anything other than good.

“Something else” being possibly another person, or just, something else. “Under the influence” is “under the influence,” whatever outside ‘something else’ is influencing us.

You are Santa Claus for someone. Do not let them down. The people you know, the people you love, the people you know AND love, and people you don’t even know, need you to be Santa Claus. Nameless, faceless children need you. They need you badly. If you’ve got a biscuit, please give someone half.

No belief system in the universe is a reason NOT to be Santa for someone.

And if you are a person who does not believe in this mysterious spirit of generosity we call Santa Claus, then, um, uh, hmmm. . . . . okay, I’ll say it. You are stupid. Grow up and become Santa Claus. Somewhere out there is a child who desperately needs your powers. It might be your own child, or it might be a stranger’s. What difference does it make what child it is? Get out there and make someone happy. Or, at least, happier. Make a difference. Ho ho ho.  You don’t have to call it Santa Claus.  You don’t have to call it Christmas.  Call it what you want.  Just do it.  Be it.

I’ll go even farther: If you are the kind of person who gets all huffy and offended and indignant because someone dared to wish you well in a language not suited to your personal belief system, shame on you. You’re angry because someone DARED wish you well? How dare YOU!!!!! How dare you throw someone’s sincere good wishes back into his/her face!!!!!

Now, get out there and make someone happy. If you have no children, go borrow some.

Life is so fleeting; why waste any of it in offended huffiness? We should all be trying our best to add to life, not suck the wonder out of it.

Don't waste your life being offended.

Don’t waste your life being offended.

Oh, and fair warning: if you don’t like the tone of this post, suck it up. The holiday season isn’t over yet, and easily offended people are one of my favorite targets.

They’re the whiny kid on the playground who is good for a show every time he/she doesn’t get his/her own way.

Is that you? I hope not. Such reactions are ugly in a child, but even uglier in an adult. But if it is, I’ll say it again: shame on you.

Santa is a symbol, a representation of a person who lives to help others. He’s a role model for us all.

Bring it on.

Eve and Morn: Had You Noticed?

“What Child Is This,” by Caroline Cooney

Mamacita says: Oh, my dears, it’s so close now, so very, very close.

There are a lot of old, boring, easily offended, humorless  people out there who don’t care much for the excitement, the wonder, the sparkles and reflections and tinsel and candles and suspense and giggles and hand-clapping and jammied children and ribbons and pretty paper and surprises, and this makes me sad for them. However, I also figure they were pretty much the same when they were young younger.

I think the ability or tendency to glow and laugh and clap and appreciate things is there in all of us, and whether we let the light of these things shine through us – or not – is a choice we make. Scrooge was Scrooge because he chose to be Scrooge. Yes, certain childhood happenings helped mold him, but ultimately, he chose his life. Free will choice. All of our lives are that way. We can’t always control the circumstances, and sometimes Karma really hits us below the belt, but we can always control the way we deal with it. Most of us go up and down, back and forth, hot and cold with our reactions; even-keeled people are rare and actually rather boring. But whether we reel from the blows and get back up, or stay down and cover our heads and wait for more, is up to us. We’ve all been there.

Me, I love Christmas. What, you didn’t know? 🙂

Christmas magic!

Christmas magic!

Christmas Eve is such a magical time. It’s all ahead of us, you see. To paraphrase Katie, age 8, in my all-time favorite Christmas novel  What Child Is This, by Caroline Cooney, the night before Christmas isn’t called a ‘night,’ it’s called ‘eve,’ and Christmas morning isn’t called ‘morning,’ it’s ‘morn.’ Eve and morn: two special words to highlight two special times.  All the other times of the year have mornings and evenings, and New Year’s has “eve,”  but only Christmas has both eve and morn.

Eve and morn are special.

How special are they? They are special already, in their own right, but how you make them special for yourself and for your children is entirely up to you. I hope you give them memories they will cherish all their lives, so much so that they will pass the glory along to their own children.

Roots and wings

Roots and wings

Children flourish with roots, but they soar with wings.

May your Eve be full of anticipation and warmth, and may your Morn be all you hoped it would be.

Those Were The Days

Mamacita says:  Mary Hopkin was one of the few women signed to The Beatles’ “Apple” label, and I have always liked her “Those Were The Days.”  However, I liked it better when “those days” weren’t quite so far back.

I grew up in a tiny house about three blocks from a neighborhood grocery store.

 I shared a room with my two sisters, one of whom slept on a twin mattress that slid under the real bed by day.  We didn’t know it was weird; we thought it was cool to have a trundle bed like Laura and Mary.  My brother, of course, had his own room.
Laura and Mary made up their trundle bed and pushed it back under Ma and Pa's big bed every morning.

Laura and Mary made up their trundle bed and pushed it back under Ma and Pa’s big bed every morning.

Dad also bought him his own car when he was sixteen but we don’t dare go there.
I was in junior high before I realized that my friends who all had their own bedrooms weren’t necessarily ‘rich people.’  To me, anybody who lived in a house big enough for everybody to have his/her own room was rich.
I don’t remember Mom ever buying a lot of groceries at one time.  She just sent one of us kids down to the ‘store’ every fifteen minutes or so, year round, to get thises and thats.  When it was my turn, she often had to phone Jerry (the store owner, who was a super nice man) and ask him to tell me to stop reading the comic books and get home with the ketchup and onions.  We never took money with us to the store; we just told Jerry to “put it on the bill.”  There were four of us kids, and sometimes we passed each other going to and from the store.  Every payday,  Mom paid up.
My allowance was a quarter a week.  It was enough.
Candy bars were six for a quarter.  You could play six songs on the jukebox for a quarter.   Thirty cents would buy a hamburger, fries, and coke at Little Jerry’s, next door to the ‘store,’ and not to be confused with Big Jerry’s, the restaurant franchise on the other side of town.  I remember the teenagers in there playing “Sugar Shack” over and over.
You could get two comic books for a quarter, until they raised the price from twelve to fifteen cents.  I was so outraged I wrote DC Comics a letter of protest.  They answered, too.  I was thrilled, until Mom explained to me what a ‘form letter’ was.  I still have that form letter somewhere.  Bazooka Bubble Gum was a penny, and I saved the comics in a cigar box, intending to redeem them someday when I got enough.  I never did it, even though I had hundreds of Bazooka comics..
For 75 cents, you could bowl three games and have lunch at the counter.
A regular coke was a nickel.  The dime coke was just too huge for a little kid to handle, alone.
Mom took me to Indianapolis several times a year to the eye doctor.  In the fall, we would go to Block’s and Ayre’s to buy school clothes.  She had charge cards there; I loved to watch the saleswoman get out the little machine, put the card in the space, and swipe the handle back and forth till the raised letters in the card were printed on the carbon paper.  All the big department stores had tea rooms back then, and we’d have lunch up there where we could look over the balcony and see the store below.  There were toothpicks on all the sandwiches, toothpicks with frilled cellophane at the top.
I have never outgrown my fascination with and love for elevators and escalators, which had its beginning in the big Indianapolis department stores that no longer exist.  All elevators smelled the same: kind of like a doctor’s waiting room.  There were elevators even in this small town, but escalators were a wonder I could ride only in the big city.
Frilled toothpicks

Frilled toothpicks

Sometimes we rode the Greyhound bus.  It was on a bus that I saw my first drunk.  The vending machine at the local Greyhound station contained candy so old, it was too stale to eat and often there were those little white worms crawling in the whitish chocolate.  I was a little kid and I wanted to give the machine another chance every time.  The machine betrayed me every time.  I can only assume that my mom was using this lesson in futility as some kind of lesson.
I wore my skate key on a string around my neck wherever I went.
Mom had odd notions about shoes.  We were always the last kids to get sneakers because Mom believed that sneakers were for summer, not spring, and she really didn’t care that, and I kid you not, we were the last kids in the school to get sneakers.    She was also a believer in rain boots and those hideous rain bonnets worn and still worn only by old women.  We walked to school from K-12, and even when it was pouring rain or the snow was knee-deep, I would walk around the corner and ditch the boots and hideous rain bonnet in a stranger’s hedges.  We had school in weather that would keep kids today home for a week.  Everybody walked to school except the kids who lived on the outskirts of town.  In high school, the same rich kids who had their own bedroom were the only ones who drove to high school.
The penny candy at Brown’s grocery was kept behind a huge glass-covered case.  We stood in front of the glass, pointed to what we wanted, and Mr. Brown would put it in a little brown paper bag.  Usually, Mom gave us each a nickel for penny candy, but if Dad was home, we got a dime.  Each.  That’s a lot of candy lipstick, chalky candy cigarettes, paraffin lips, teeth, and moustaches, and, for me, the occasional lemon.
That’s “lemon.”  The fruit.  I’ve loved them since I was really little.
Sometimes I bought a lemon.  No, I didn't put sugar on it, but thank you for asking.

Sometimes I bought a lemon. No, I didn’t put sugar on it, but thank you for asking.

Our ice cream man drove a yellow pickup truck, and two high school girls made snow-cones and sold us popsicles from a freezer.  We could hear him coming near from clear across town; the yellow truck didn’t play music; the high school girls rang a large bell.  The popsicles were a nickel.  The snow cones were a dime.

 These experiences and prices seem so extreme now, even to me.  It’s almost like something we’d read in a novel about the olden days.
Oh, scheisse. . . . .

Poetry: Beauty and Truth

Absolute and beautiful truth.

Absolute and beautiful truth.

Mamacita says:  Poetry.  I first encountered Gerard Manley Hopkins’  Spring and Fall and Robert Burns’ John Anderson, My Jo in a college course.  Unfortunately, the professor was a jaded, bored, boring man who considered himself far too important to be teaching a group of eager undergrads, and who turned every selection into a joke.  Both poems, he taught us, were about old people who were about to die.  No biggie, that. Death.  Common theme.  Moving right along. . . .

A lot of treasure went undiscovered that semester, thanks to him.  He knew there was gold in that book and even more gold seated in the room, but he did not bestir himself to go a’digging for it.  Too much trouble.  He held the key to a treasure chest and did not bother to use it.  Never once did he tell us that poetry was awesome and fantastic and heartbreaking and thrilling and bloody and pathetic and sweet and sour and bitter and lusty and sexy and mind-boggling and dirty and just plain wonderful unless it wasn’t.

A few years later, I encountered this poem again, in Jean Kerr’s How I Got To Be Perfect.  Jean and her husband Walter, upon realizing – with horror – that while their kids seemed to know an

This is a must-read, my friends.

This is a must-read, my friends.

awful lot about sports and movies and fun, not one of their kids knew anything about poetry, instituted “Culture Night,” wherein each child had to memorize a poem and recite it to the family once a week.  It went over like a ton of bricks the first few times, and then took off like a rocket as the boys gradually gained an understanding and appreciation of form, rhyme, meter, patterns, theme, and inner meanings. (The Common Room has a fantastic post about Jean and Walter Kerr’s “Culture Hour.” I highly recommend that y’all go read it.)

One night, after Jean’s son Colin had finished his recitation of  John Anderson, My Jo,, Jean burst into tears. The boy said to her, “Mom, it is Margaret you mourn for.”  It was true.

I cannot think of either poem now, without tears.  The good kind.  I teach my students that both poems are, first and foremost, about love: the kind of love that lasts forever.

John Anderson, My Jo, by Robert Burns

JOHN ANDERSON, my jo, John,
When we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonnie brow was brent;
But now your brow is beld, John,
Your locks are like the snow;
But blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson, my jo!

John Anderson, my jo, John,
We clamb the hill tegither;
And monie a canty day, John,
We’ve had wi’ ane anither:
Now we maun totter down, John,
But hand in hand we’ll go,
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson, my jo.

Spring and Fall, by Gerard Manley Hopkins

Margaret, are you grieving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leaves, like the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! as the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you will weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sorrow’s springs are the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What héart héard of, ghóst guéssed:
It is the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.

Thank you, Jean Kerr, for teaching me that poetry rocks. The university couldn’t be arsed to do it.