Will it ever stop?

 I don't know how you slept last night, but I did not.  Every time I closed my eyes all I could see was a mad man with a gun shooting at innocent children who were running in terror.  I can only imagine what was going on in their little minds.  To see their classmates falling with blood gushing from their wounds, must have been horrific.  This is their days of sand and shovels, recess and happy times.  Probably the only time they were ever in a position of violence was an incident on the play ground and that was controlled by adults who supervised and quickly settled the spat.  They may or may not have ever heard the words "school shooter" and yet here one was.

It is beyond even my scope of reality to imagine such a thing.  In my world no one is violent.  No one brings a gun to my house.  I own a gun.  It is a pistol.  It is in a drawer and the clip in another drawer.  I carry it when I travel when it rides in the glove box and the clip under my seat.  If I break down and a big mean man is breaking my window intent on doing me harm, I will assemble it and I will use it.  It is for my protection.

I can only imagine the scene when a man walked into a class room with an AK whatever it was.  I think the kids were at their desks.  They probably looked at him and wondered who he was.  When he shot the first child, they would have been surprised.  This was not a normal day.  As he continued his carnage the children would have watched in horror as their friends fell.  No doubt they scrambled for cover, but where do you hide in an open room?  Devastation was every where.  The teacher, who was their leader already lay dead and yet still the gun blazed as their friends lay on the floor with wide eyed , vacant stares.

What do we do to stop this?  What is the solution?  Guns are legal.  It is everyones right to have and use a gun.  Constitution says so.  Where does your right to own a gun supercede my childs right to enjoy a safe environment at school or play?  The second amendment comes into play here.  That amendment has been waved around for years like a mantra for the over zealous who really have no idea what it means.    Maybe it is time for us to take a new look at it.

Maybe it is time for us to send some people to Congress who can pull their respective heads out of their respective hiding places and ask what the second amendment actually says.  I am not a scholar, but as I recall it speaks of a " well regulated militia" in conjunction with the right to "keep and bear arms".  When the constitution was written the arsenal was not the guns that are made today.

My brother had a .22 rifle.  It was to hunt rabbits which we ate.  Over the years guns have become symbols of something I know nothing about. Apparently a man can arm himself with a full aresenal that includes an AK 47 and anything else he is man enough to carry and go wherever he wants.  It is only when he begins to shoot at people that it becomes illegal.  Not so in my world!

Keep your guns!  Store them where the sun does not shine!  Fly your Confederate flag.  But not in my world.  For years I have donated to animal welfare, veterans, St. Jude, the church, homeless shelters and things like that.  No more!  I am now going to be putting my energy and money to changing gun laws.  Sandy Hook, Orlando, and now a little town in Texas.  It has got to stop and if gun owners cannot police themselves, we will do it for them.  The NRA is one of the biggest contributors to government elites and that has got to stop.

I implore you who are reading this to join me in researching candidates a little better.  See who supports them.  The NRA is not our friend.  The guy with the Confederate Flag flapping out the back of his truck is not our friend.  Our friends are the kids who did not make it home from school yesterday.  Our friends are the standard bearers who placed them in the ground and covered them with dirt while tears fell like rain.

May God grant me the courage the change the things I can, the strength to accept the things I can not and the wisdom to know the difference. (from AA and this is not accurate, but you get the idea.)

Kansas at it's best!

I did not plan a trip to Kansas, but here I am,  I knew I was missing my sister and my nieces and nephew, and it was my desire to travel back home a some point, but just not right now.  Kansas is rather notorious for tossing a tornado into the mix when you least expect it and that is why I had not wanted to come here at the height of tornado season,  But here I set!

Today I had lunch with my friend Joe at Skaets Steak Shop, which is owned by my sister .  Then on Saturday my daughter and her husband will be here with 3  great grandkids,  Probably have supper with Alina and Tom, spend some time with Evelyn and then get up on Sunday and head back to Colorado.  I grew up in this neck of the woods so i know a few people.

Right now the weather is kind of cool, but it knows how to get hot and humid when it wants to!  I am hoping it will not do that, but who am I?  The wheat is looking good and I think there will be a bumper harvest this year!  I tried to call cousin Daryle, but no answer.   Sister Donna is asleep on the couch, so I am left to my own devices.  I think I will wander down stairs and see what became of the room I used to sleep in when I came.

Guess I am at a loss for something to do.  Just wanted to check in,

An incident.

 Incident is described in my Webster's as 1."an occurence or event.  2."a seemingly minor occurrence that can lead to serious consequences."  And that all sounds so simple.  Something happened and it was of no importance on a normal day, but when a life is lost through something that should not even matter, it is a different story, isn't it?

My son had a friend.  They went to school together, rode bikes together, smoked pot together, drank together and then began to work, date and become responsible adults together.  There was an "incident" and now the friend is dead.  It all began so simply with a cell phone call.  The lady on the phone drifted out of her lane, just a little.  Seemed innocent enough in itself.  But the car in the lane to her left had to swerve to avoid a collision.  He saw the car pull into a drive and followed to tell her what had almost happened because she was on her phone instead of paying attention.  He was in her driveway when her husband looked out and seen a stranger waving his arms and confronting his wife.  He opened the door with a gun in his hand and shot him.  No questions.  No communication at all, just pulled the trigger.  Now, I ask you, who was right?  No one.  Who was wrong?  No one.

The lady who had been on the phone tried to do life sustaining measures to save his life.  His girlfriend watched as his life ebbed away.  The man who pulled the trigger cried.  An incident?  Seems like there should be a word that better fit the circumstance.  Who knows.

Did anyone learn anything from this incident?  I hope so.  I hope the woman on the phone can wait to answer the next call until she is parked.  I hope the man who shot him will take a breathe the next time he has a loaded  gun in his hand.  And I hope his girlfriend can find the help she needs to deal with this incident.  They had been a couple as far back as I can remember.  No doubt she is being told there is help, but finding it is a whole different matter.  

Rest in peace Matt.

The saga of the perfect Pinto Bean!

My journey to the great state of Colorado began a long time ago.  I think the year was 1973.  I do know that Susie was a wee little tyke.  She is the only child of mine that actually started and finished school in Pueblo.  Sam finished here, but did not start.  The other girls were sporatic as to where there roots really were.  I just lived in a state of confusion.  I finished school here by getting my degree in Accounting, but I never really graduated high school at all.  But that all has nothing to do with the sacred Pinto Bean which is a staple of Colorado and an art that must be cultivated!

Back home on Strong Street, the beans were Navy beans.  They were a staple and were cooked on the top of the old wood stove.  If we were real lucky we had a ham bone to throw in for a bit of flavor.  Winter or summer made no difference as to how we cooked.  A wood stove was what kept us alive in the cold and fed us in the heat of the summer.  But I digress.

When Charlie and I came to a parting of the ways, I knew I needed a job that paid more than cooking and waiting tables, so I got myself down to the Business College and signed up for the course that would give me my Accounting Degree.  I worked for a construction company days as a bookkeeper, nights I went to school and late nights I waited tables at a place in Bessemer called Liz's Cafe.  I know the older Pueblo people remember that place!  When the bars shut down that was where they went to eat and I waited on them!  I meet very few people now who were regulars, but once more I digress.  Back to the Pinto Bean.  

At that time the day cook was a lady named Angie.  Angie was ageless in that I knew she was older, but age did not seem to matter than.  Of course we became friends.  As the day cook it was her job to keep the kitchen in staples for the afternoon and evening.  Every day she cooked a very big kettle of pinto beans.  They were delivered in a 50 pound gunny sack and had to be sorted and cleaned.  Therein began my education in the fine art of the perfect refried bean!

She was also the breakfast cook so she also cooked orders as they were turned in to her.  Huevous Ranchero's is a meal I had never heard of until I started at Liz's.  The plate contains 2 eggs, hashbrowns, a spoonful of refried beans and tortilla.  Everything is served with refried beans and covered with a genereous serving of Green CHile over the whole plate.  The beans  are in the burritoes, taco's  and any other thing you choose to eat!  As such they need to be perfect!  So, here goes...

The can full of pinto beans is dumped onto a stainless steel table.  Then begins the chore of touching every single bean and deeming it worthy of the pot!  The bean must be complete with no loose skin, crack or off color.  By very nature of the way beans are harvested, a rock sometimes shows up.  Of course that is a no no!  But Angie was Queen of the Bean and taught me how to quickly seperate the "wheat from the chaff," so to speak!  I do not remember Angie ever having a day off while I was there.  Surely she did.

When I first started there the matriach, Liz herself was just living in the back and not really working, though she did pop out from time to time.  The resturant was run by her son and daughter in law.  Later it was overseen by her granddaughter and her husband.  Shortly after I left it was on it's downward spiral.  People change and the mill was no longer the central part of Pueblo's world and the mill had been a mainstay of Liz's.  But life goes on. 

The building now sets vacant as do a lot of buildings down in the Bessemer area.  I do know that area was called Bessemer because the mill was there and the process they made steel with was the Bessemer process.  So anyway, time marches on!

I am now an old lady and do not even need my Accounting Degree.  I would rather make cookies and take a walk along the ditch, but let me tell you this....when I cook beans, they are sorted and cleaned and cooked with a big spoonful of lard!  Not shortening or bacon grease, but lard.!

After all I did learn at the tutelage of  the master, Angie Whateverherlastnamewas!

Bon apetite!!!

Momma never really left me.

 Momma is still with me.  I see her arm and hand coming out of my sleeve.  I see her eyes watching me in the mirror.  I even hear her voice in my head when I am faced with one of my dilemmas. (She would be proud that I spelled dilemmas correctly on the first pass!)  My mother was very smart.  She was also very pretty.  When I went to live with the grandma's at the start of my freshman year, I was enrolled in Plevna High School.  Mother enrolled me and at that time girl's were automatically enrolled in Home Economics.  There were no such thing as electives, it just was what it was.

To get to the crux of the matter and set the background for this post, the Home Economics teacher was a lady named Ms. Crawford.  Ms. Crawford had gone to school with Christine Haas, who just happened to be my mother, Christine Haas, at the time.  Now my mother was not only very smart, she was also beautiful.  She had the prettiest hazel eyes, trim figure and flawless skin that was to die for.  I inherited my skin clarity and tone from her.  All through puberty when the other kids were battling acne,  my skin remained smooth as silk.  To this day I do not recall ever having one of those things called a pimple.  I was very lucky.

Back to the topic of Ms. Crawford.  Home Economics in the Plevna High School encompassed all 4 years.  As a Freshman in a class of 12 meant that the Home Ec class meant there were 7 of us girls in her class.  The first day she picked me out as that little Bartholomew girl.  Her nose sure looked long when she looked down it at me and announced to the class that she had gone to school with my mother.  Something about the tone of her voice when she said "your mother" made my blood run cold.  Her whole demeanor to me was different then with the other "farm kids".  It was my first case of being disliked simply because of jealousy over which I had no control.

Needless to say, I flunked Home Economics with flying colors.  There was no way in the world I could do anything to please that woman.  My other grades were high, but there was no hope in that class.  Suffice it to say, after that debacle I grew up to work as a cook, manage a restaurant, and own a restaurant, so I must have learned a lot after I left there!  

I have often wondered just what caused the animosity between those two women.  I guess it was not between them, just on Mrs. Crawfords side.  Momma  picked me up take me home to Nickerson one time and Mrs. Crawford passed us with her nose in the air.  I told Momma that she did not like me and Momma said, "It has nothing to do with you.  That is just how she is.  She does not like me."  That was all that was said about it.

And here I set 65 years later wondering what that was all about.  I could never fathom what caused the animosity between those two and now there is not a soul left that could tell me.  I just know this, my mother was the sweetest, kindest, most wonderful woman to ever grace God's green earth and it was Mrs. Crawfords loss.  

And another thing momma told me was "You never know anyone.  You know of them.  You know the part they let you see."  Momma was right.  Over the years I have known many people, but I have not really known them.  I have loved many times, but not known most of them.  A leopard never changes its' spots.  Momma said that.  Momma was usually right.

I miss my Momma.

Life before the street lights came on.

 I started first grade a month before I turned 5.  I remember my teacher was Miss Donough when we started and she was Mrs. Breece when school was out for the summer.  We lived on the Stroh place when we started, but moved into the only home my father ever bought before school was out for the summer.  I have few memories of the Stroh place, but those I have are vivid.  Dorothy was born there.  Mother went to club every month there.  There was a big mudhole by the house that we were not supposed to play in there.  Donna poked a turtle with her finger and it latched on and John Britan had to cut its head off to make it let go.  Jake was kicked in the face by our Shetland pony.  He carried the scar until the day he died. Our old cow caught some disease and died, leaving us with no milk for the baby.  But in the spring, we moved to our own house on the other side of town out by the cemetery.  Dad bought another cow.  That was Strong Street.  709 North Strong Street to be exact.

I do not remember where the street light was located, but it seems to me it was right past the Reinke house and before the Smith house.  Probably right in front of the Goodrick house.  I do know we went out every night after supper to play in the "hood".  We had to be careful not to speak to any strangers because they would kidnap us and kill us or sell us to the Gypsy's which was a fate far worse then death!

Strong Street was a destination, not something you came across by accident, so we were fairly safe there.  Hank Windiate, the old crippled man with the horse and wagon lived on the end of the street, right across from Jerry and Ora Ayres.  First was our house, then the Reinke house, then Jake Smith and then Hank Windiate. The Ayres house, which was seperated by a vacant lot from the Goodrick house was the last house on that side of the street.

  

Our house, the Reinke house and the Ayres house were the only houses that had kids.  The Reinke girls, whose mother had died after giving birth to her last child, were not allowed out after dark.  Neither were the Ayres kids who were older, so it was basically just us.  So every night it was a rousing game of "Kick the Can!"  Now, for those of you who do not know how to play this, I will explain the rules.

First, you must have a can.  Now back in the 40's, a tin can was a coveted item.  First it meant your parents had enough money to buy a can of vegetables, or your brother had gone to the dump and foraged around and found a nice solid tin can!  Jake was good at that!  The can was placed upside down over a place that was designated as "home" and was usually located by the old Catalpa tree.  Whoever was "It" closed their eyes and counted to 100 while all the kids ran and hid.  Then "It" would go and find the hiding kids.  That kid would be brought back to the can and placed in "jail."  The only way to get out of jail was for one of the "hiders" to wait for the "jailer" to wander off and look for another hider to tag and "arrest".  When the jailer left someone could run in and "kick the can", thereby freeing all the kids held in the jail.  Some times one of the kids from "town" would come by and play.  That always made it more fun.

We were allowed to play for 30 minutes after the street light came on.  We knew when 30 minutes was past because mother would holler for us to "get in here and get ready for bed."  Now "getting ready for bed" was another ritual.  That simply meant washing our feet in the wash bowl in the kitchen and drying them on the ragged old towel that hung from the back of the chair.  Now that may not sound like much to you, but to this day, I can not go to bed with dirty feet.  Of course, now that I have shoes AND socks, dirty feet are a rarity around here, but some memories never die.  

Sometimes I find myself looking at an empty can and thinking how Jake would immediately think about using it for our next game of "Kick the Can."  I wonder if my sister, Donna Bartholomew remembers those nights on Strong Street?

The years have dimmed my eyes and slowed my feet, but my mind continues to relive some of the best times of my life back when the hardest thing I had to do was "Kick the Can" and save my sisters and brother.  I wonder if that helped make me into the woman I am today, that marched in the Gay Rights Parade and held the hands of the hospice clients as they crossed to the other side?  I like to think so.  

I do know Mothers Day is just around the corner and I would give my right arm to just be able to see my mother one more time and look into her gray eyes and tell her I love her.  I think she always knew, but I never said it often enough.

I host a high tea at my church the Saturday before Mother's Day.  Tickets are $25 if you are interested.  This year I am going to have a table for "Mothers pictures."  If you are interested in attending contact me here on facebook or call my church at 719-544-1892 and leave a message with Jill.   My number is 719-546-1555 here at home.

Talk about a nightmare!!

 I just woke up from a nightmare to end all nightmares!  I dreamed I got married and the reception was in Miramount Castle!  Apparently, the wedding was early morning because the reception was breakfast fare.  Lots of bacon!  That part was good, but for some reason I got separated from the wedding party.  I never did get a look at the groom!

The point was that I had fixed a "to go" box and put it in a gunny sack and placed it under my table and then wandered off to explore the castle.  I did my exploring alone.  When I realized that time had slipped away and I was going to miss my ride I panicked. I could not find any of the people in my wedding party and my gunny sack full of food was no where to be found.  That was the part that upset me most.  While I looked under every table in the giant hall, no one paid any attention to me.  It was like I did not exist.

I did finally find my gunny sack, but it was empty.  Since I was crying hysterically by this time, a very nice man offered me a grilled cheese sandwich, but since a bite was gone out of it, I declined.  He was very shabbily dressed and appeared to have been drinking.  He pointed down the hall to the exit door which I scurried forward to and opened.  The parking lot was completely empty of vehicles and only one person stood there.  I approached her and she shoved me over the edge of the cliff. That is all I remember of that dream.

Now, let's just analyze this little dream in the cold hard light of day.  I had been to Miramont Castle because Rebecca and Ron took a few of us to a high tea there a few months ago.  It was a delightful experience so that would explain wanting to go back to the castle.  Now as for the wedding, I do not know where that came from!  I do have a man friend in my life, but it has definitely not advanced to the wedding bells.  Not something either one of us has contemplated nor discussed.  Friends indeed, but getting naked at my age might not be a good idea from either his or my point of view!

Now, the bacon part is the part that I can understand.  I love bacon.  I do not eat much bacon because it is messy to cook and is best savored in a BLT with farm fresh tomatoes.  Farm fresh tomatoes are a little hard to come by here in Colorado in the middle of winter.  I do confess, a really good BLT is right on the top of my favorite foods list, but let us analyze further.

A gunny sack to hold my wedding gifts?  Really?  What kind of friends do I have?  And what kind of friends, not to mention the new husband, would leave me to wander a castle alone on my wedding day?  And who was the woman in the parking lot who threw me over the cliff?  Did I die?

Enough of this!  I rarely have dreams that I can recall so vividly and odds are this one will fade from my memory rather quickly once I start my day.  I sure hope so!

If my former therapist is reading this (and you know who you are) please let me know if I need to get back into therapy.  Most of the time I tend to be pretty level headed, but this one had me talking to myself when I woke up.  Probably scared my neice to death!