CNN reports– Former Secretary of State Colin Powell said Wednesday Iraq’s violence meets the standard of “civil war”. Powell says if it were up to he might recommend the administration uses that term.
Bush has avoided using the term “civil war” to describe the problems in Iraq.
Tuesday, he referred to the latest violence as “part of a pattern” of attacks by al Qaeda in Iraq to divide Shiites and Sunnis.
How American like you see… when something sounds real bad, just re-word it so it has its’ own way of sounding just that much better to reassure people.
I didn’t realize in college when I heard a speech on euphemisms by George Carlin that the same speech must be on re-peat at the white house.
For all of you who have not heard the speech, surely go listen to it now. The words are funny but the truth is there.
Carlin, throughout his segment says something like this….( For a full version you must go online and look it up)
In W.W. I when a fighting person’s nervous system was stressed or it’s was at its peak and they couldn’t take it anymore, their nervous system had either snapped or was about to snap the term was called Shell shock. By W.W.II the same condition was called Battle Fatigue, by the Korean War it was called operational exhaustion and by Viet Nam is was changed to what we know now as Post traumatic stress disorder. Basically the pain gets buried away under jargon Carlin says.
Carlin also mentions how false teeth are now dental appliances, trailers are mobile homes, wife beating became intermittent explosive disorder and a peephole now sounds not so wrong with the name observation point.
I believe Iraq has been in a civil war for decades and just because we don’t call it that does not mean that is not what is happening. Two sides of the country at war, isn’t that what we would call a civil war or was it part of a pattern?
It’s late I guess I will head home because the weather looks pretty nice today. It is partly sunny or as it used to be called partly cloudy.

When Mayor Joseph Maiurano approached me about doing a story to promote shopping downtown during the holiday season, I thought it was a great idea. Unsure of exactly how I wanted to approach the story, Mayor Maiurano and I dedicated a few days to traveling from business to business in the heart of Norwich, asking what the stores had to offer their customers. The results were amazing. Neither of us had anticipated the sheer volume of merchandise available in the downtown Norwich area.

It took many tries before the article was complete. First I tried to mention each of the stores and what type of merchandise they carried. When the story began to look more like a shopping list than an article, I knew that particular option was out. Then I tried breaking the story up into segments, featuring a handful of businesses in each article in a series, but again it sounded like I was just listing stores and items. Finally, I decided to write one article, discussing downtown shopping as a whole. I mentioned a few business owners who mentioned special services they provided for the community, and those that gave the best quotes.

The article was complete, and I was proud of myself for doing something that would promote down town and all of the people who work hard to keep it thriving. That is for a little while.  Only hours after the story ran, I began hearing about complaints from some of the merchants. The problem, basically was that I mentioned some business owners and establishments, and left others out.  Although the story was supposed to promote down town shopping as a whole, that is not the impression that it gave to many local merchants.

Although I will admit, I was initially upset over the business owners’ reactions, I suppose the fault lies in my own judgment.  The merchants cannot be blamed for looking out for the best interests of their own businesses, however, I have learned my lesson. I won’t be writing any more holiday shopping stories, because someone is sure to be left out or forgotten. So instead, I will just say, downtown stores have a wide variety of merchandise, and shopping locally helps the local economy.

It was a dark and blustery Thanksgiving Day, and I was busy helping to prepare the meal for the swarm of crazies that fate made my relatives. Thanksgiving had become somewhat bland for me and the youngest of my five sisters. As the only two vegetarians in a family full of carnivores, we were outnumbered and outvoted on many occasions, but this year we had taken the lead, buying and preparing our own tofu-turkey. We were excited about the change to the usual menu, as we pulled the slightly gelatinous mass from it’s container, and plopped it onto the baking sheet. Two drum stick shaped objects, which appeared to be made out of frozen sawdust, landed on either side of the faux bird.

Lisa and I weren’t worried by the jiggley appearance of the object, because on the other side of the kitchen was a big headless bird, with no feathers, and some rather disgusting organs crammed inside of it. In comparison, ours didn’t look nearly as icky. We busied ourselves preparing the rest of the meal, while the tofu-turkey lie forgotten in the oven.

It wasn’t until we smelled an acrid scent, similar to burning plastic, that we remembered our sad creation. Smoke rolled off of it in waves, as we pulled the congealed blob from the oven. The outside looked slightly crisp, and the sawdust drumsticks were dry and shriveled. We thought perhaps it could be salvaged if we made the accompanying vegetarian gravy, and drizzled it over the top, so we mixed up another foul smelling concoction, and set the table.

This tale would end with the shriveled faux food left untouched on the table, if new love had not intervened. They say that love is blind, but on this occasion it was anosmic. I had just started dating the man who I would later marry. He knew I was the one responsible for the tofu-turkey, and because he didn’t want my feelings to be hurt, he took a heaping portion of the dried up not-bird. He forced a smile, suppressing the urge to gag, and lied “this is good.” He tried to cover the taste, by pouring large amounts of the gloppy gravy over his plate, but the look on his face showed that only made it worse. I tried to tell him that he didn’t have to consume anymore, but he was focused solely on choking down the foul fake fowl. He didn’t even seem to notice that neither Lisa nor I nor anyone else followed suit, at least not immediately.

To this day, in our household we are thankful on Thanksgiving. Thankful that there is an empty spot on the table where the tofu-turkey once sat. Even though Lisa and I still avoid the turkey on Thanksgiving day, we no longer have any desire to change the menu.

Have you ever been stranded?

It’s happened to me a few times.

Once was in rural Tennessee after taking a “short cut.” My friends and I were stuck in traffic for 18 hours with an over-heated RV – surrounded by moonshine, bongo-blasting hippies and a couple thousand prized Holsteins. All three tasted horrific. But in a pinch they complimented each other nicely.

The second time was in Colorado. I had walked nearly five miles down a nasty mountain road (after offending several native Arkansians and being kicked out of their car for telling a foul joke about hogs and breakfast food), only to find an eerie but well lit 7/11 being manned by 6 Senegalese nationals. After haggling with them for 15 minutes over the purchase of a pre-paid phone card, it became clear to me that these gas station attendants – in the middle of the Rocky Mountains – only spoke French. That is until I walked out the door and one of them laughed and yelled, “Hey chunk, you told the ‘DINER? YOU BROUGHT HER!’ joke again, didn’t you?” After they broke into hysterics, I knew that it was a long walk of shame I had made before.

My most recent experience was much more pleasant. I was trapped in Greene during Thursday’s rain storm. Not that being stuck overnight 25 miles from home in flash flooding is fun, but not having to eat anybody, or tell bad jokes in French to good people from Arkansas (?), is like finding $20 in somebody else’s gym bag…or it’s like (last) Christmas…whatever.

I was hold-up at the Greene Firehouse, and everyone there was great. They let us use their phones, eat their food, watch their TV, hang-out in their garage and slide down the greased pole. OK that last part was a lie…Greene’s pole is not greased. But now I do wish that I had been. Hindsight is 20/20.

It was amazing to watch those guys work. The second they got back from a call, they would head right back out to another. And they never appeared to be scared or nervous. They just did what they had to do, no questions asked. And when they weren’t out helping people, they were in the station helping us. I give them a lot of credit.

Assistant Fire Chief Scott Hubbard was nice enough to let me ride with him, and we drove around flood damaged Greene for about a half-hour. We looked at cars buried under water over at the Raymond Corporation, and assessed possible flooding at the river. When we got back I listened to the firefighters talk about what they saw, and most of them acknowledged how unexpected, and how quickly the weather had gotten out of control. One gentlemen described a creek that became diverted by debris, and routed itself through someone’s house. Many other similar stories made their way back to the garage.

The rain took a long break from about 7:30 p.m. until about 10:30 p.m., and by that time I was bushed. Things slowed down at the station too. I was welcomed to sleep there, but the white fold-out tables acted a bit sheepish when I administered the “suck-in and slide-on” tactical maneuver. So I decided I’d just sleep in my car parked out on the street.

Not quite ready to suffer some bed-time KIX 94 in the car, I took a walk around Greene. It was pretty, and even though I was alone, cold, and wearing a huge yellow trench coat (because of which I was mistakenly reported over the scanner as a school bus full of children that was caught in a mudslide) I never once felt alone, or like a man without a country (or a phone card). Which is unlike all the other times I’ve been stranded. Thanks Greene Fire Department.

This week is American Education Week, and I cannot let it pass without mentioning my favorite teachers. First of all I should say a few words about the wonderful English teacher at Oxford Academy. Although I didn’t attend school in Oxford, 11th grade teacher Jena O’Conner taught me how to read the summer before I began kindergarten. I was five, and she was ten, and with her help I developed a love for reading that never ended.

Now that I’ve finished praising my sister, I will tell you a little about my favorite school teacher. I remember meeting Miss Blake during my first art class in kindergarten. I don’t remember much, except that at the time I thought her name was Miss Black, ‘cause if you’re an art teacher your name should be a color. She always seemed to be in a good mood, and to this day, she seems to receive more hugs than any other teacher. Since that first meeting, I had many encounters with my favorite teacher. In fifth grade, we started the art club. During recess, we had a choice, we could either go outside and play, or we could spend the afternoon with Miss Blake, discovering oil crayons and water colors. An overwhelming number of students turned down kick ball and picked up the colored pencils.

Miss Blake stuck with us through junior high and high school. She eventually became one of our class advisors. The prom committee met in her room during lunch, making plans and preparations. We worked on the mural that hung on the stage during the dance, and with her guidance, made it beautiful. Miss Blake accompanied us on our senior trip, and before graduation, she gave us each a folder full of art work that we had created over the years.

More than being just a teacher, Miss Blake was a true friend. To this day, I feel I have a close connection to my favorite teacher. She attended my wedding, and I send her pictures of my baby. As a child I was inspired by her warmth and kindness, and as an adult, I strive to make a difference to others, the way she has made a difference to me.

Walking the halls of Gibson Elementary School even today gives me a warm feeling. Having spent seven years of my life in that building it still beholds the same smells, lots of the same faces, the same wall hangings and is fulfilled with some great memories. Unlike middle school and high school as a younger child school holds the mindset of fun and not work. The ropes dangling from the ceiling that really meant anyone who could actually make it to the top was amazing, the playground with the holes in the wood that would always be filled with bees, tag at recess, the art masterpieces hanging in every corner, yah those memories sure do hold true. As Americans we have recognition for almost every occasion possible to acknowledge people in our lives who have made a difference either nationally, internationally or right here locally. This week is American Education week and I would like to thank and show recognition for Gail Murphy the funniest music teacher I ever had. Being who I am I do believe I was not born with any singing, dancing or anything musically inclined abilities. Although, I could not sing, play an instrument real well, act or do much of anything Gail Murphy always made music class fun and exciting. From the annual plays which I still have on tape just so I can laugh at myself to the Halloween parties where she would decorate her room to the hilt and make it truly enjoyable. I will never forget the year she had us stick our hands in bowls and guess what inside, yup you guessed it the last bowl was optional and I will never tell what was in there!!! I still remember watching Fantasia for the first time and playing with the colored drum sticks. Just Gail’s personality is what brings her room to life everyday. Thank you Gail for being a wonderful enthusiastic teacher.

The elections are finally over, and I could not be happier. This year, while sitting on the sidelines, watching the drama of the campaign season unfold, I couldn’t help but feel like I was watching a soap opera. The drama factor was at an all time high, as scandal after scandal rocked both parties. Mark Foley’s inappropriate relationships with under-age congressional pages left the Republican party with a storm cloud hanging over them. It seemed the Democrats had the race in the bag, until John Kerry’s insulting comment about military troops sent people all over the country into an uproar.

The issues were abandoned, focus instead being placed on smear campaigns and mud slinging. In what appeared to me to be the worst year in recent history for negative advertisement, it was easy to grow frustrated with politicians who forgot about why they should be elected, concentrating instead on why their competitor should not. The political scene has deteriorated into something that resembles a school yard fight, with everyone picking sides and yelling at one another.

With the election results in, the Democrats have won control of the House and the Senate. The need for improved bipartisan relations is integral to how we are able to progress.  We need to put an end to the finger-pointing, blame game tactics, and get back to what really matters.

After bearing witness to such a negative campaign season, I look ahead to presidential elections with a sense of fear and dread. The individuals running our government should act like people we can respect, not like insolent children who need to be placed in time out. I hope our politicians will realize that before the next campaign season rolls around.

Letters..
Bound in several smaller brown paper bags wrapped in plastic where recently washed up on the shore of Atlantic City, N.J. These letters although some not truly heartfelt, some were. Dozens of people pleading to god to give them second chances, to make up for mistakes they felt they had made. Others simply ask god questions about what can be done to help them. These letters originally addressed to a pastor (maybe) were never retrieved and never read. A quote from the article states
“I guess rather than just throw them in the garbage, maybe they thought they’d set them out to sea to bless these people,” he said. “So they made a trip to Atlantic City, maybe went to a casino, and put the letters in the water.”
As people started looking into this there are small segments of the story that do not fall into place so perfectly and if they aren’t solved I would personally think they could cause a small uproar. The Pastor to whom the letters were addressed can not be significantly identified, his previous addresses listed are full of neighbors saying he never lived anywhere near them.
The biggest part of this saga regards the man and son who found these “messages in a bottle” but the last quote from what I read says the fisherman said he is sad that most of the writers never had their letters read. But he hopes to change that soon: He is putting the collection up for sale on eBay.
Okay, maybe I’m looking to far into this but these letters are personal and private and I’m sorry but anyone with some extra money can purchase them on eBay. Was it stated somewhere that if you want to send messages to the holy one himself just take a picture, put a price tag on it and sell it on eBay?
I could be wrong and the nice little fisherman may want some of these letters to be bought by what a priest, because I know of at least a dozen priests who shop on eBay.Or maybe someone who had written one of the letters? No, not so much!! And who gets the money for this endeavor? Pretty much these people have their privacy invaded, their names and addresses can be identified and its for sale for anyone to buy??
–So next time you go to confession I want a recording of it so I can sell it on eBay. Your right, no I don’t. I don’t think I could be that insensitive to all those people’s deepest thoughts and regrets.