Category Archives: Life

I Love a Rainy Day

Unlike the Carpenters‘ Rainy Days and Mondays song always getting them down, I like rainy days.  The kind of day that begs for hibernation, curling up with books, and reflective thoughts of life.

When I awoke this morning to that delicious half light that accompanies immane cloud cover (BTW immane is a new word I learned – means monstrous, huge), my consciousness cuddled with my soul and prepared for one nice snuggy day.

I love skies filled with clouds (note I say that while staying in and looking out.  Not unlike my admiration for snow filled days also).  The best clouds in the sky photos are taken by my friend Celi so pop over here at thekitchensgarden to have a boo at this header.  

*and catch up on her farmy adventures!  Below is one of Celi’s skies.

Celi's sky

I must admit that retirement has rendered me one of the lowest maintenance gals around.  My needs are simple.  Gone is the need to impress anyone, including to dress to impress, to speak to impress, or anything else of the ‘ess’.

Especially days like this.  Some tea, clouds, and of course reading material.  I figure I will never run out of material because push come to shove I can make up my own.  But I love well written books and my sources are many.

One of the most exciting things I did this year was to make an effort to get out of my comfort zone in the literary world.  I know what I like.  But this year at the encouragement of my dear dear New Zealand blogging and Skype buddy, Judith who chooses how she will spend each day and who started another blog near and dear to her heart, about of course, books and more book 2017. I ventured out to other sorts of books.  I am glad I did!  I just wish I kept track of every book just to impress the daylights out of you. OH! forget the ‘impress’ anything.

Another wonderful source that soothes is Joss Burnel, words to live by, breathe by, dream by and who has found Eden in Ecuador.

 

Quiet days like this means leisurely perusing the news.  So today I see that Vancouver has beaten Toronto as the most expensive in Canada to live.  Of little matter to one such as I but an interesting fact.

Also Canadian, is that in a bar in Dawson City, Yukon, you can buy what is known as a ‘sourtoe cocktail’ and that said toe is a truly mummified toe that must touch your lips as you drink your cocktail, AND that said toe was stolen, AND that the alleged thief sent a letter to the RCMP (Royal Canadian Mounted Police) saying that he had returned the toe to the bar by mail. And you think we Canucks don’t have news?

Next I read an article that the approaching solar eclipse is expected to cause a terrestrial problem for us.  It seems it will cause a 70% reduction in energy output which will in turn put stress on regular old energy production.  If you rely on solar power, we are forewarned that at 2:30pm on Monday August 21st production will drop.

Well, other than a fine chap from the Ottawa area who won 22 million dollars in one of our lotteries, and who is NOT related to me, or is one of the people on this earth who adores me, but intends to benefit others with his win, I think I am finished with news.

I will make another cuppa, work a bit on my own creative endeavor, and then resume reading. AHHH lots to be grateful for.

 

A Moment in Time

**Note this may only be of interest to family

This is the story of a young girl, born in Hackney England in 1884.  Four years later in July 1888 she was an orphan situated at ‘The Annie MacPherson Home”, in Stratford, Ontario, Canada. She was sixty years old before she knew for sure when she arrived at the Home.  She was seventy-nine before she knew the date of her birth, the names of her mother and father, and her address in Hackney.  She had assigned herself a birthday just to have something to celebrate. Her eightieth birthday was the only accurate birthday date, and that party was mighty.  She died a year later. But there was great joy in her life as the following photos will show.

This is a peek at a wee book I have put together as a gift to my godmother for her 90th birthday this month. The booklet is about her grandmother, my great-grandmother. I will post it just a few chapters at a time.

I must say it was a surprisingly huge task considering its size, but research took months and I certainly have enough information to write ten books.  But for now that information has been filed.  I have had a few books printed and will present Elaine’s to her at her party.

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Chapter One                                                              Beginnings

                                                                    Annie at 60

This is the story of an incredible woman, without whose participation, none of us would exist today.  She had a sad and hard beginning, one that might make us wonder how she could ever have had any degree of happiness.

But the good thing about life is that, regardless of hardship, pain, and loss, there is still joy to be had.  Perhaps the loss makes the happiness sweeter.

Annie Dorothy Frampton had a beautiful, joyous smile.  This will be evidenced in some photos you will see later.  Her joy was her family.

The very thing she lived her early years without, became her greatest treasure, by her own making.

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Chapter 2                                           Robert White 1832-1916

Before we tell Annie’s story we must start in Glasgow, Scotland in 1832, when Annie’s future father-in-law, Robert White was born.  Little is known about his early years, though we know that on Saturday, the 17th day of April, 1858, in the town of Stratford England, 26 year old Robert enlisted in the 100 Regiment of Foot, Horse Guard.  Less than a year later he mustered out of the Guard for a fee of twenty pounds at Shorncliffe England with a Good Conduct rating.

Robert White wearing his dress uniform

   robert dress uniform                                                                                                                                                              

 robert discharge document

What happened to Robert between 1859 and 1871?   By this time he had immigrated to Ontario, Canada, and a year later, at the age of 40, married 17 year old Leah Strickler in 1872.

Scots had been immigrating to Canada since the 17th century, and around the years that Robert White came to Ontario, 80,000 Scots entered Canada.  From the time of his discharge from the Horse Guard, it was 21 years until the birth of his one and only child James.

Below is Robert’s death notice.  At that time he lived in Paris and died on August 4th, 1916 at 11 pm in his 85th year.  His funeral left the home of his son James White, West River St., Paris, Ontario, on Monday August 7th at 9:30 am for the GTR Depot following a service in the home of James.  Interment was in the Mennonite Cemetery at Bright.

death notice Robert White

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Chapter 3                                      The Stricklers of Preston, Ontario

Let’s for a moment jump back even further in time and place to York Pennsylvania, USA in the year 1822.  Specifically November 22, 1822.

Part of the Pennsylvania Dutch immigration, Reuben arrived in Ontario where he met and married Leah Witmer, who was the first of three wives.  Leah and Reuben had nine children, one of whom, named after her mother, would grow up to marry Robert White many years later.  Women died, often in childbirth and men remarried to have someone care for their children.

reuben memorial page (3)    reuben memorial page (4)

 

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Chapter 4                                               Robert and Leah

 

Leah and Robert married in 1872.  She was 17 yrs. and he was 40 yrs. old.  They had no living children until James Henry White was born in 1880.

In reviewing the Canadian Census Records of the time, it appears that the age difference did bother Robert.

In 1871, Robert properly listed himself as 39 yrs. old.  This was a year before he married his very young bride.

In 1881, ten years later Robert is listed as Presbyterian, Leah as Mennonite, James, the baby, as 6 months old.  Robert’s age is recorded as 44 years old – short by 5 years.

In 1891, Robert lists his age as 49 years.  He was really 59 at the time.  So our many times ‘great’ grandfather only aged 10 years over 20 years.

Interestingly, Annie Frampton, in the same census (1891) is listed under the family of J. Willows, a 34 yr. old farmer from England, who had a number of children listed. (Is it possible this family took her in from the orphanage?)  She is stated as 7 yrs. old.

****Next post is the story of the young Annie and then Annie, her husband James, and their life and legacy

 

WHAT IF THE SOURCE OF ….

WHAT IF THE SOURCE OF WESTERN problems all stemmed from one evil? Societal restlessness, increased suicides and attempts, especially among the young, increased violent crimes, an increasingly hopelessness infused into each moment.

I wonder if we have let ourselves be duped, not unlike those of times long past who fell victim to purveyors of handy dandy things to make your life better, happier, bring you joy, ease.

You see I wonder if all our problems exist because of a collision of expectation and reality. Just like the anorexic young girl who cannot resolve her body image with that of skinny air brushed models we have been sold a load of nonsense about happiness.

That’s right. What if our expectation of happiness is not real, but an idea invented by small time scammers who made delusion a big time business.

Just like the simple country folk in the frontier days, shelling out hard earned dollars or cents (cents were so much more valuable then) to a shyster convincing them that the purchase of a bottle of mysterious happy juice would make your life, heart, or soul better, we began, decades ago buying up and into nonsense that life was all about being happy.

By the way the purveyors of this nonsense, who kept saying, look at me, how happy I am, You can be happy just like me, were indeed happy as society shelled out billions of dollars in books, on courses, in classes, advertising. At least they appeared that way externally, though I suspect their inner souls were just as bleak as any.

In the sixties the cry was, I am trying to find myself. Who am I?

Then along came the big roll out. Meditation, examination, imagination, any ATION, and all you had to do were pay. Happiness became a product. Buy this, be happy. Happiness in a bottle, a pill, a house, a car, a dress,……Or the most dangerous, Buy This Book, Idea Psychobabble told us imagine, visualize, believe, and it will manifest. The use of the word Manifest in itself should be a crime. And for those who tried to MANIFEST and did not succeed? Well they just did not do it right. We were, and continue to this day, we are being sold a Bill of Goods. It only fills the pockets of the sellers who are scamming you me and future generations. Sure they are happy, laughing at our gullibility all the way to the bank.

Then we came to believe that we had to convince our children they are happy or rather they should be happy. That life is all about being happy. They are not allowed to fail, to feel the pain of loss and know that it is okay, a part of life that makes us stronger. And they buy our Bill of Goods and become confused, depressed, and fearful when they cannot quite grasp this feeling they should have. What is wrong with me, they say. I must be deficient.

The pursuit of the illusive HAPPINESS has gone off to a realm of ridiculousness and people, especially our young are falling apart.

What if it all could be fixed?

What if we made a society (and we can by the way) where key words became, DIGNITY, HARD WORK, DETERMINATION, PERSERVERENCE, KINDNESS, NON-JUDGEMENT, VALUE PERSISTENCE.

What if we retaught ourselves that it is okay to fail, that there is a dignity in failing and falling? That failing does not mean unworthy? What if there was honor in the struggle?

What if we let our children know that it is okay not to feel happy in any given moment?

What if the new word became Satisfaction? Not in the result but in the attempt to live a good hard working honorable life. (with heavy emphasis on the hard working) and at the end of each day to feel a satisfaction?

Life is messy, and hard, and at time so sad and lonely, and painful but there is a worth to life, a Satisfaction that must be earned.

Let’s take a huge load of our children’s minds. It’s okay to be sad, mad, even glad. Let them know LIFE IS HARD, but can be rewarding instead of setting up an illusion called Happiness. And rewards must be earned.

What if Happiness exists as a by-product of this thing called LIFE?

World Access in Isolation

World Access in Isolation

depositphotos_2823384-Access-denied

I should start by saying this is not a complaint. Merely an observation.

It seems almost paradoxical. The way of things today I mean. Everywhere you look people are focused only on the device in their hands. Out on the streets heads are bent as fingers fly across small keyboards. Are they even called keyboards anymore? No one makes eye contact anymore. Okay there are some.

I used to comment it was only the young people ( meaning anyone younger than I), but I notice on the streets, in stores, in cars (a no no) eyes are cast down and some of them belong to pretty old people. If you speak or otherwise engage and the head comes up, the eyes seem out of focus if they meet yours at all.

What I find strange is that at the very same time we have personal access to people across the world. Which in my mind makes this little planet that much smaller. Each week I come face to face in real time with my cousin in Scotland, my BFF in Winnipeg or Mexico or the west coast or the east coast or points between, wherever this Gypsy Road Warrior chooses to be, and then halfway around the world to my friend freshly recovered from an accident and still brave and back as good as new Judith Baxter whom you know as growingyoungereachday.wordpress.com who lives in New Zealand.

I am pretty sure the outcome of this will be a world of folk unable to engage in proximal reality, physically close together. Even with skyping or messaging our reality becomes that face on the screen. Social skills lost.

How will next generations be able to interact? Will they be able to tolerate another human in close proximity? Will they be aware of trees, skies, breezes, natural beauty at all?

Will they lose their humanness? I read a prediction from a very science type on Quora that ultimately that is exactly what will happen. I am also sure that if someone from the nineteenth century were to glimpse our world as it has become they might also deduce we had lost our humanness already.

Times they are changing, as the saying goes.

Having said all that, I am most grateful that those I love around the world are as close as ‘this’ and we can look in each other’s eyes and raise a glass of red wine as we chat about any old mundane thing that crosses our minds.

Permanent Press in the Dryer of Life

Are you in control of your life? Really can any of us be in control ever or is it an illusion? That we have control of anything I mean.

Everyday things come up and we deal. Sometimes events occur that are so huge all we can do is hang on and sometimes we are not even aware of hanging on. We just are. I am not sure how we survive sometimes, but survive we do.

Faith helps but it doesn’t necessarily spare us the pain. It does give us strength. I guess sometimes the pain is the only thing that lets us know we still exist.

I have been tumbling about my own dryer of life and it seems to be settling for a bit at least, but the pain I speak about is of loss. I have a friend who lives on the other side of the world whose loss has been extreme and while my pain is not hers, it hurts to think of her hurting and struggling.

I feel like she and I are surviving the tumble but not yet able to see what the future will bring. Neither of us has control but we are blessed by love and people who care about us.

I have another friend half way across the country who came within a hair’s breadth of the most terrible loss, that of a son. Fortunately that situation worked out okay but there were hours that seemed like days or years when it seemed the worst would occur.

We have no control except over our selves. We are being buffeted by the winds of change – now how cliché is that – and some have no idea what the next step will be. We can only wait. Breathe. And wait some more.

It seems to me that love is the answer. To love and to be loved is permanent press in the fabric of life.  Okay that last bit was a little in the extreme but you get the idea.

On Waking Early Ridiculously Clear of Mind

‘It seems to be an age thing, this waking up at 1:45 am, all rested and bright and mercifully doesn’t happen every day – yet.  However there seems to be a certain creativity in the hour or is it merely misguided perception, or I guess really, misperceived perception?

Laying very still listening to thoughts on free range you might say before the presence of the day cages and labels them .. these were this morning’s treasures….

Thoughts-

What do Judge Judy and Liam Neeson do for us? (Honest honest this was the first thought.)

What if your world changed in a blink?

Are you capable of looking after yourself?

What am I not seeing in this moment?  And why does it take decades to be able to look back and wonder why we could not see what is so obvious now?

‘Decisions we make today

The things we do or do not

Temptation to evil is less glitzy, glamor and noise

Heralding its arrival and intent –

And more the quiet seductive luring and alluring procuring

It is not the roar of cannon fire warning of danger danger danger

Giving time to suit up, armor up, prepare

But the barely heard snake like slither sliding, guiding and twisting into our minds and hearts

Mindlessly following, allowing, plowing past caution.

The nonsense of consequence easily dismissed ,

Until we see the collalteral damage of broken hearts, broken children, broken homes, broken futures.

Broken us.

Now where did that come from? Guess I should go tackle that Judy/Liam thing now cause I think my mind has reached the deepest it is going to go for the day.

Why do you read Fiction?

What do you think about when you pick up a story?  I hesitate to say ‘pick up a book’ because stories are accessed in many ways today.  The most obvious answer is entertainment, a peek at, and an opportunity to enter someone else’s world for a while. To become a part of another experience and by the time the last page is perused a sigh perhaps of satisfaction, or frustration, or contemplation.

Most of us have favorite authors we depend on, knowing what we will get, not necessarily in the events contained within, but a guarantee of familiarity.  What I like to think of as the Comfort Food of literature.  Some of you follow the top sellers keeping abreast of what’s in, providing opportunity for new experiences and thoughts.  I make it a point during my weekly library trips to include new authors, at least to me, and when a book is recommended by a friend, I read it.  I am not much for romantic themed or erotic stories and therefore have never read Fifty Shades of anything, the series that brought shades of education and blushes to the cheeks of females who otherwise may never have admitted publicly taking delight in sexual adventures.  When pressed by many acquaintances to at least give a read, my response has consistently been that I do erotica, I don’t read it. Ha Ha.  Whether that is true or not is not for discussion, but it was a glib enough response to satisfy and take the encouragers off on another path.

My Comfort Food Fiction list is fairly extensive and is the source for rereads as well as waiting in anticipation for the next volumes to appear.  Included are Koontz, Crichton, King, Cussler, Meyers, Rowling, Buck, and Dickens.  Of course those that have passed on can only stand as rereads and that is fine.

Comfort is hard to come by with a few authors and yet I embrace them heart and soul.  Reality in fiction can be sad, even depressing but the struggle, or rather surviving the struggle is a story worthy of notice.  I wonder in this western culture of pursuing happiness, if we have done ourselves a disservice and weakened our ability to survive by believing that happiness is indeed the gold ring of achievement and not survival itself.

Reynolds Price wrote a book published in 1998 called Roxana Slade which was referred to me by a friend.  It almost seems that this man merely channeled the voice of Roxana who at ninety odd years relates her life tale and takes you, the reader on a journey of struggle, loss, and survival.  His (the author) is so skilled that you quickly embrace Roxana and fold her being into your existence.  Whenever I put the book down for a bit, the characters and situations stayed with me, and I found myself thinking about them throughout the day until I could again curl up and turn another page.  Now that is amazing writing.

I have another favorite author that I simply cannot allot to my Comfort Food Fiction list, and that is Patricia Cornwell.  Her Scarpetta Series and characters are as familiar to me as my own family, but I seldom feel a sense of comfort.  The most recent read is ‘dust’.

Cornwell is a must for me even though I know there will be questions, anxiety, and frustration from time to time.  All of her characters are flawed and not in the cute little way popular fictional hero characters are flawed but overcome, but in a haunting kind of way that strikes me at times as too real.

As a Chief Medical Examiner Kay Scarpetta always has a mystery to solve but the story is more about the struggles and survival of our characters, the things they battle internally to still carry and on and succeed.  People get unjustly fired, are not well liked, have struggles with what they wish life was like and is not.  Justice does not always prevail.  Solving the mystery, catching the bad guy is often anticlimactic to the process, the living, the surviving.

Frankly, for me, experiencing the discomfort of some of these stories, the reality and the survival helps me keep my own reality in perspective.  There are sad, bad, unjust, horrible things in life. But there is much more to be valued.

Have you found the same thing?  What do you get out of Fiction?  Why do you read Fiction?

Ironing Out the Wrinkles of Life In a Wash and Wear World

മലയാളം: Charcoal Iron Box for ironing the clothes
മലയാളം: Charcoal Iron Box for ironing the clothes (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Ironing Out the Wrinkles of Life In a Wash and Wear World

I did something today I have not done for years.  I ironed.  Most people I know stopped ironing clothes when wash and wear made our lives easier, although I am not sure where the easier comes in as we have a tendency to fill the time with some other activity and the general pace of life itself has been accelerated so that it occurs to me that ironing in some way might just slow it down.

Now there are still lots of daily and weekly ironers out there.  In fact my cousin in Scotland and her peeps do it all the time.  My SIL here in Canada still irons.

I had the ironing board out to finish off a project when it occurred to me that I might just press a few articles of clothing likes blouses, sport tops etc just for the heck of it, and I found myself seized by the need to organize drawers and closets.  This is a common urge when large projects are completed.  Why? I don’t know.  Common sense tells me a better celebratory activity might be taking a cruise, or vacation, or even just out for a lovely dinner.  Maybe it is reactionary to spending time focused on one thing and neglecting a hundred other things.  For instance, IF I had put the board and iron away when I finished with it, the thought to do anything else probably would not have drifted through my grey matter.

Anyway, there stood board and iron.  Emptying drawers and a pile of fresh laundry from yesterday – because I did not put it away then – beckoned me on.

As I was pressing lace and designs I realized that by accepting wash and wear I was missing intricate beauty brought by a little heat and pressure and at that moment when I removed the iron did I see the fine stitching, the ivory sheen.

My mind started to wander a bit as I considered how much of our own lives do we just wash and wear?  A large part of the world I see figures that all they have to do is ‘put it out there’, believe and it will be, without realizing that it takes some heat and pressure and persistence to make it so.  Didn’t someone say that luck is 90% hard work?  Or something like that.  The idea being that verbalizing and thinking something is just the first step.  Then come the actions, the work; the energy to make it happen.

A positive frame of mind and spirit is invaluable but unless we use it to iron out the wrinkles in our lives we are forever stuck in a wash and wear existence.  And really, is the fabric of our existence not the quality material we want to show and display?

Rhythm

Rhythm, a sequence in time repeated, featured ...
Rhythm, a sequence in time repeated, featured in dance: an early moving picture demonstrates the waltz. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Rhythm

Ya Gotta Have Rhythm

I’ve been caught up in a few projects lately, setting goals which look good on paper or screen, and wondering why I am not getting all the things done I want to or need to accomplish.  It seems that with the arrival of the vernal equinox there came a need to reflect, to assess, to plan.  At the same time it seems the chain on my wheel of life slipped off the universal cog, and while I continue to function I am out of step.

I have come to the conclusion that reflection, for me at least, is not best in the long run.  At least not when said reflection takes up the entire day. Day. After. Day.  I pondered days of yore when I was organized, and enjoyed the thoughts so much that I returned to them again and again.  Aren’t memories wonderful?  One can be so selective in choosing them.

Then when I noticed I seemed to be out of sync I spent a great deal of time thinking about that.  Wondrous thoughts like ‘I’m dancing as fast as I can’ came to mind, but really I wasn’t dancing, I was stumbling.

Now how can something like that happen to someone like me?  Fleet of foot, well balanced, witty me?

It finally occurred to me that I was missing Rhythm.  The Rhythm of getting up and getting started getting done.  Of course then I had to ponder what Rhythm does for us.  Aside from musical Rhythm which is obvious in its expression I considered the successful people I knew.  What did they do differently?  Was there a secret to their success?  And the answer?  Rhythm.

There are all kinds of Rhythm; some may remember the old fashioned birth control method, which didn’t work as often as it did work, then there is the toe tapping finger snapping feeling good kind, and then there is the very intrinsic, silent to the world but loud to the soul type.

This Rhythm gives us momentum as we dance across the floor of life.  This Rhythm is life.  It is energy.

I am not sure why I lost my Rhythm.  Does it mean I am not doing something I should be doing?  Is it Writer’s Block?  Or is it Life’s Block?  It is more than the inability to write anything worthwhile.  I feel like it is a shadow I am chasing, just catching it in the corner of my eye and then disappearing.

I am not depressed or sad.  I am my own enigma.  A puzzle.  The feeling is intriguing, and certainly entertaining.

I expect it will depart soon.  One can only be entertained by such things for a while.  I also expect that the secret to finding that particular kind of Rhythm is just in the doing.

Have you ever felt the same way?

Odds and Sods – Late Night Early Morning Musings

Physical bullying at school, as depicted in th...
Physical bullying at school, as depicted in the film Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

It’s 3:30 am and here I sit wide awake.  Yesterday the boys and I headed off to Kitchener to meet my SIL and her 3 grandchildren at one of the city’s museums.  There was a special area set up for Circus themes and activities which included high wire walking for the children.  We waited.  In line.  For almost 2 hours.  Each child after being strapped from stem to stern with safety wires and harnesses had the opportunity to walk the high wire and we quickly figured that the wait would be about 5 minutes per child in line.  That meant of course that 12 children equaled a 60 minute wait and the adventures therein were many but that will have to wait for another post.

The point is that by the time I got home I was exhausted, stiff, and sore.  The day was tons of fun so it was worth it, but I knew when I got home I would want to sleep so I kept moving, puttering about here and there and finally gave in to a couple of glasses of fermented grapes and a little TV.  I finally surrendered to the sandman way too early, but oh my, it did feel good to slip between those sheets and head off to the land of nod, just to wake bright and early – well the bright part is me as it is still dark outside my window- thinking great thoughts, and pondering all things ponderable.

I noticed more brave little stories on FB about bullying and an article about Charlie Sheen on yet another rant, this time about his daughter being bullied, and this got me to thinking about this way too sensitive subject.  And from that pondering came questions.

Where will the heroes of tomorrow find their brave?  So many outstanding people suffered some form on bullying or rejection (which seems to somehow have become equalized to bullying) and in doing so became braver, became stronger. They became our leaders, our artists, our models for success.

Strength, I have heard, comes from Adversity.  Are we removing or trying to remove all adversity for the younger generations?  And in doing so are we making their future more difficult?

Are we over defining bullying?  When does a taunt between children playing become bullying?  The lines have become blurred.  I can clearly see brutality, which I think is a more accurate word than bullying, which ends in child suicides and torturous lives, and should have far more severe consequences than it seems to.  But where do we draw the line?  How will anyone learn to ‘suck it up’ and carry on?

When I was a child there were lessons to be learned; Life is not fair, some people are jerks who will be hurtful and the challenge was not in negating hurt but recognizing it and becoming stronger because of it.

I fear that because of the extreme cases of brutality we are going too far in teaching our children to cry ‘poor me’ in less severe situations, instead of teaching them to stand up, be strong and understand the reality of the world.  The reality is that in spite of our great hue and cry against brutality (bullying) there still continues to be bullies and there still will continue to be bullies in the future.

George Carlin and Dean Koontz have both expressed, one on stage and one in fiction, that when we over protect our children we are doing them a disservice.  They cannot become immunized against adversity because we do not allow them to experience adversity.  Is that what we are doing in this situation?

You see, I applaud anti-bullying programs.  We have more situations when groups of people, particularly students are standing up as a group against bullying. That is a good thing.  There are all kinds of education on recognizing when bullying takes place, stopping the act of bullying, and denouncing it publically, but I have yet to see a program that teaches us the reality of the how and the why of it and coping.  It just seems that we are so busy with the ‘buzz word’ of it all, that we are failing to carry through with the successful coping of it all.