We didn't get a whole lot of T.V. when we were kids, so every time we went to a friends' house, what do you suppose we wanted to do? Watch T.V. (and eat white bread).
Even after they were tucked into bed, it was all about T.V.
Yes. It is a bunker.
To quote from the flyer, "It is the only private land for 12 miles. There are hidden caves which I will show to the new owner. These caves have not likely seen any humans besides myself and my boys."
Or how about this selling point "Step outside the front door and you can fire a pistol, throw knives, strip naked, whatever!"
You could even make this guy mad, with no negative consequences.
Forget charm, comfort and beauty. We're going for indestructibility. Really.
Even now, as a grown up with online tracking and knowledge of orders placed, I get excited when the UPS truck jerks to a stop in front of our house. Is he coming here? I wonder, and when he jogs up my sidewalk, I clap my hands and run to the door.
Except for today.
Today, the UPS man brought this:
It is a pump for my still broken dish washer. I don't know what the hell to do with it.
And I don't want to learn.
I'm mad at that doggone UPS man.
Under everyone's name, gender, date of birth and relationship, we were supposed to check the box next to our race. The options were written as follows:
Several conclusions come to mind. One. Am I so melted in to this big pot that my possible Irish/English/Russian/Italian/Australian heritage doesn't count anymore? Two. Since my Dutch/Danish/Austrian/South African/Jewish heritage has light skin, does that make my race the same as my German/Czech/Ukrainian/Polish/French husband? Three. My skin is not white. I am wearing a white sweater as I type and there is a marked difference. Four--and this is the point I really want to make. Aren't we past that already? Why can't we just be American? For the sake of census and understanding immigration (legal or illegal, I don't care for this purpose), maybe there could be two boxes. One that says American (if you are a legal citizen) and the other that says Other, with an option to fill in your country of origin. How many generations does it take to say I am American--not Dutch, Mexican or African? Today, St. Patrick's Day, is a perfect day to make this rant, because I am not suggesting you forego your cultural heritage. Drink your beer in Oktober, dance the Polka on Ground Hog Day, beat the Pinata on your birthday, make matzo balls for your celebration. Yahoo! Keep the traditions alive!
But check the box that says American on your census form. That's what you are. Please, let's finally dispense with the name calling and sub-dividing.
And I couldn't help but think that it wasn't the soil that healed Mary, but the Creator. She was doing the work that mankind was assigned in the Garden of Eden: tend and keep.
This is my Father's world,
and to my listening ears
all nature sings, and round me rings
the music of the spheres.
This is my Father's
world: I rest me in the thought
of rocks and trees, of skies and seas;
his hand the wonders wrought.
This is my Father's world,
the birds their carols raise,
the morning light, the lily white,
declare their maker's praise.
This is my Father's world:
he shines in all that's fair;
in the rustling grass I hear him pass;
he speaks to me everywhere.