Trump is Going to Make America Great Again

Note: After reading the following, please delete it.  If Trump gets wind of this little old lady in North Carolina speaking unfavorably of him, there could be a lawsuit in my future. On second thought, never mind. You don't have to delete it. I'll just use "dementia" as my defense. Trump who?

The problem with America is Washington is full of idiots. No one knows what they are doing there. Politicians lie out their teeth!  Nothing is working right. Everything is broken. 

Trump is telling it like it is, and it's the truth for a change. He's saying what has needed to be said for a long, long time. You know those Washington politicians will say anything to get elected, so they can't be trusted. And besides, everything that is wrong with this great country of ours is their fault. Got it? Good. Because this is what you need to believe before we go any further down this "Gonna Make America Great Again" road.

How about some anger now? Let me hear it. Go ahead. You can vent with me.

"IRELAND IS SENDING ALL THEIR CRIMINALS AND RAPISTS OVER HERE! SEND'EM ALL BACK ON STRETCHERS! REMEMBER THE GOOD OLE DAYS WHEN YOU COULD JUST PUNCH PEOPLE WITHOUT CONSEQUENCES?"

Oh, hold on now! Don't you mean the Mexicans?

'NO, I'M TALKING ABOUT THOSE LAZY, GOOD-FOR-NOTHING IRISH PEOPLE WHO CAME OVER ON THE BOAT IN THE 1840'S. I'D LIKE TO PUNCH'EM IN THEIR FACES. SEND'EM BACK. AND DON'T GET ME STARTED ON THE ITALIANS; THEY STINK, YA KNOW. IT'S THE GARLIC. GIT'EM OUTTA HERE!"

Well, okay then. Let's move on. Let's talk about fixing the problems that are plaguing America right now.

"CANADA  IS SENDING ALL THEIR KILLER WHALES TO CALIFORNIA AND WE'RE GONNA BUILD A WALL ALONG THE  COAST TO KEEP'EM OUT AND MEXICO IS GONNA PAY FOR THE WALL. AND WHEN THAT'S DONE, WE ARE GONNA MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN."

That's it? That's all you have? What about Obamacare?

'OH, IT'S OUTTA HERE TWO  MINUTES AFTER TRUMP TAKES A DUMP IN THE WHITE HOUSE. AND WHEN HE'S DONE WITH THE DUMP, WE'RE GONNA MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN.

What about all the jobs that have been lost to overseas locations.

"OH, THEY'RE NOT LOST ANYMORE. WE FOUND'EM. THEY'RE OVERSEAS. DID I MENTION WE'RE GONNA MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN?"

What about foreign policy? How will America, under the leadership of Trump, deal with challenges around the world.

'OH, THAT'S EASY! WE'LL JUST WIPE'EM OFF THE FACE OF THE EARTH! AND WHEN WE'RE DONE WITH THAT, WE'RE GONNA MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN."

Wow! That seems severe. Aren't there any other options?

"OH, YEAH! WE HAVE LOTS OF OPTIONS TO MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN. WE'LL TELL YA LATER AFTER TRUMP IS PRESIDENT. HE'S BUSY RIGHT NOW SHOWING HIS VERY LARGE HANDS TO THE PRESS, WHO HE HATES BECAUSE THEY ARE SLIME, SCUM, HORRIBLE PEOPLE, TOTALLY DISHONEST PEOPLE AND SLEAZE BAGS.

Trump is too busy to tell the people specifically how he plans to make America great again? What about substantive details that people can get their arms around?

"LIKE I SAID. HE'S BUSY! ALRIGHT!! SPEAKIN' A GETTIN' ARMS AROUND SOMETHIN' I GOTTA GO NOW. I GOTTA GET MY ARMS AROUND A TRUMP PROTESTER AT A TRUMP BRAWL.

Okay. Thanks for helping me understand how Trump is going to make America great again.

All I Have to Be is Good

Coming to an Amazon near you April 1st.  No, it's not an April Fool's joke, kids. It's a real book. You may want to read it. Then again...maybe not.

Backcover:

The winding path in life can sometimes be difficult to navigate. How can the younger generations possibly make their way through the maze without guidance from their elders? This aging baby boomer, concerned about the younger members of her family making the wrong turns that could result in pain and suffering, has spent the last five years attempting to reach them through her rambling blog. She has life stories to share with them, along with the lessons learned and a dash of elder perspective. And then there's the wisdom that she wants to share, and as soon as she finds some, she promises she will pass it along.

Done

Saturday Night-Date Night

At my school, in 1963, Saturday night was special; it was date night. Boys and girls would pair up, buzz The Cup on Pendleton Pike and The Tee Pee on Fall Creek and then head back to the Pike for a 9:00 movie at the drive-in. Then for the next two hours they would drink pop, eat hotdogs and make out in the backseat of the boy's father's car. I fantasized about that Saturday night in the future when a boy would pick me, the heretofore rejected, for a night of pop, hotdogs and time spent in the backseat of his father's car. But would that time ever come? It was the summer before my senior year and I was still invisible to the opposite sex.

It was Saturday afternoon, August 24, 1963. I was taking a nap with my three-year-old sister, Lynnette, on the couch in the living room when I heard a knock at the door. Mother and Dad had gone to the store. Were they expecting someone and they didn't tell me? Pulling the curtain back just enough so as to not be obvious to the knocker, I saw a man with a white envelope in his hand standing on the porch. I didn't recognize him but he was holding something--something for my parents probably. With hair a mess and clothes rumpled from sleeping, I opened the door.

The stranger looked at my little sister first and then me. A big smile spread across his face. "Are you Carol Louise?" he said.  How did this stranger know my name? Had I met him somewhere before? Was he from the church? My school? "Yes, I am," I answered. "Good. I'm your father," he said. Then he handed me the white envelope. "You are now eighteen and this is your last support check," With that, he turned around, walked down the sidewalk, got in his car and drove away.

...and that's all I have to say about how I spent my Saturday night on my eighteen birthday.

Sic'em

Rumor had it that when Skiles Test's wife died, the reclusive and eccentric millionaire embalmed her in a glass gasket inside his dilapidated mansion on the northeast side of Indianapolis. He lit her up with blue lights, and at night her ghost left the gasket to roam the grounds around the house, scaring anyone who dare step one foot on the property.

The House of Blue Lights was not far from Lawrence Central High School, but its exact location was not known. The property surrounded by barbed wire and guard dogs was hidden somewhere in the hills west of Shadeland Drive and north of Fall Creek. That's all my friends and I knew, but the mystery and intrigue of such a scary place and the nagging desire to be the first students at Lawrence to actually step foot on the property, peek through the windows, and report back that we saw the blue dead wife in her glass gasket was what drove my friends and I to our near death experience one Saturday night in the summer of 1963.

My memory of the night begins inside a car driven by a boy who (or is it whom?) I had never met before this night. He was drinking, as were his two friends sitting next to him in the front seat. There were five of us in the backseat, only two of whom (or is it who?) I knew: My friend, Petie Peterson, and Gary Perkins, one of my crushes.

This was the night, our drunk driver promised us, when the mystery of The House of Blue Lights would be revealed. He knew exactly where the house was because he had been there  many times before, he said. Petie, Gary, and I would be the first Lawrence Central students to finally witness it and then tell all of our friends.

The driver parked the car off the side of the road about a hundred feet from a narrow dirt lane that was overgrown with weeds. Across the lane was a cable that kept cars out but not teenagers looking for an adventure. It was pitch black out so Petie and I held on to each other as the boys led the way through the darkness.  The lane dead ended at a lake and perched on a hill overlooking the water was a large, beautiful mansion. This was not at all what I expected. Where was the run-down mansion?  I didn't see any barbed wire. I thought there would be blue lights. And what about the guard do.....

Without warning, the night lit up and we were all now standing in daylight. At the mansion, a door opened and a man's silhouette stood in the threshold. Two objects sped past him as he shouted "SIC'EM!!" Five of the boys raced back up the dirt road; Gary, Petie and I headed for the lake. We ran the length of the dock and with no options left, we jumped in. I grabbed ahold of a pylon and Petie grabbed ahold of me. Two Doberman Pinschers were on the dock now looking for flesh and blood, our flesh and blood. We stayed under the water as long as we could, but we had to come up for air. When we did, the dogs were right there, heads hanging over the edge of the dock, inches above us, eager to devour the trespassers on their property. To get away from the dogs, Petie and I moved under the dock, but where was Gary? He had jumped in the lake with us, but he was nowhere in sight.

Ten minutes passed, then fifteen. The dogs were still on top of us but no longer in a state of frenzy. When we heard the owner call them back inside the house, Gary left the safety of his pylon and joined Petie and me.  Water logged, we sloshed our way back to the car. They thought we were dead, the drunk driver and his friends said. Torn to shreds by the killer dogs. Yeah, we thought we were dead too.

While Petie, Gary and I were hanging out under a dock waiting to die a horrible death, our driver and his friends were back at the car discussing our unfortunate fate while enjoying a few beers. When we showed up soaking wet but unscathed, everyone laughed. Ha! Ha! What a funny story to tell our friends, we all said. Then our drunk driver stepped on the gas pedal and sped on down the road. Whew! What a relief. We were safe now.

Now is the Time for All Good Men

start Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their country. Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their country. Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their country. Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their country. Now stop

Sixty-four words a minute. I had broken my previous record of fifty-six words a minute by eight words. I stopped typing and turned to Juanita, who was the fastest typist in our class, to tell her she'd better watch her back because I was catching up with her when screams erupted in the hallway outside our room. For several long seconds everyone sat motionless at their typewriters trying to make sense of the sudden fracture in our calm clickety clack world.  Running bodies flashed across the threshold of the door, then a student stepped inside our room and said, "President Kennedy has been shot."

I stood up and walked out into the hallway. Some students, like me, stood with blank expressions, showing no emotion. Intermittent screams broke through the chaos as the breaking news traveled throughout the school. Some students were crying and holding on to each other for comfort while other gathered together in large support groups. I was all alone with my numbness. I walked past them all--these people who when tragedy strikes run toward each other rather than slip away, like me. They cannot see me vulnerable; they cannot see me cry; they cannot see me fall apart; they cannot see me lose control. 

I walked out the front door and down the sidewalk to 56th Street. I crossed the street, walked down Edlou to Austin Drive, turned left to the second house on the left. My parents had not left for their factory jobs yet, but they and my little sister were nowhere in sight when I opened the front door, walked quietly down the hallway to my bedroom and closed the door. I kicked off my shoes, slipped under the covers on my bed, and stared at the ceiling while that student's inconceivable words kept repeating in my mind: President Kennedy has been shot. President Kennedy has been shot. President Kennedy has been shot. 

On Friday, November 22, 1963, sometime after noon, while I was beating my prior record of fifty-six words per minute in Typing Class, President John F. Kennedy was shot and killed by a sniper in Dallas, Texas. The world was in shock; Americans were devastated and weeping, crying, wailing for their loss. I was devastated too, but I trusted no one, not one person to share my grief.