Having been an RN, I know some things which I advise others not to do, and one would be to endeavor to write something which shows fore thought after having taken medication, medication which I keep needing because I still have not defeated the airplane respiratory system terminator which grabs me on all plane trips these days, and why do I not go to a physician?  I do not want to hear for the 2000th time that we are overly medicated with antibiotics, and time will cure this bug which has gone all over the map each week.  It has toured the lungs by way of the bronchial trees.  It has visited the little places like alveoli, and has knocked on the doors of air sacks which have long been dead from my father’s cigarette smoke, the blebs, as I remember them to be.  Heading north, it has hit the esophagus, the trachea, and now it is sitting on the steps of the sinus and mucoid membranes of my head, going in for warm baths in the sinus cavities, and my tympanic membranes feel as if snakes are going to burst out of them at any minute.  I am miserable, absolutely miserable, and the only good part of the whole frickin’ episode is that I am not hungry.  My eyes sting and burn from the pollen, and the nares simply shut off and send guards with, “Keep out signs.”  This is how horrible I feel physically, I feel so horrible my mother came again in a day dream to make me coffee, the coffee with cream and sugar, and God knows what else she put in it, for she always had that belief that she could, “Burn a cold out of us.”  I told you before that she has been coming and that is not correct, for Mama died many years ago now, but I will swear she is trying to take care of me.  I am going to send my physician in San Francisco an email, for I think it has about gone on long enough, so he can call something in.  Physicians and nurses do not like to seek treatment, so the past few years of having a lot of interaction with regular care just does not fit what I consider to be my independent nature, but I am throwing down the gauntlet since I do not have any of Mamas regular stuff to kill us or the germs, which ever succumbed to death first, so now you get to hear again.  I give up!  This sinner cannot heal her self, and that was another Biblical term which some folks I know do not get that it was a metaphor for the spiritual.  Alright Christian Science people are smart folks, and you can go in the reading rooms and have yourself a cup of coffee, but I do not believe you get the caffeine.

I think the highlight of this day though, was when on our news in Cincinnati which people still confuse with flying turkeys and WKRP, the old television faux Cincinnati, had as a news matter of the day that a gentleman had stuffed steaks down his pants at a nearby Kroger store.  I found this to be degrading, and if his name gets out, and it will, because they caught him red handed!  I was so disappointed that this station or any other station would carry this news, and were I not still under attack from the vectors just listed, then I would probably have laughed along with every one else.

Here are my thoughts.  There are so many men who feel morally as if they are carrying steak in their pants each day behind a nicely tailored zipper that it seems appropriate that this thief would figure a few steaks would hardly be noticed, considering we have the finest beef walking around town daily who emphasize or take pride in their great proportions and wealth.  Here was a man who probably has an arrest record already, for he was apt to be drunk or on drugs, and maybe he actually was hungry.  He was apt to have been a little unkempt to have been followed, and he is sighted stuffing steaks down the front of his trousers.  If he was a street person, those trousers probably carried other protein in the form of horrid little critters burrowed in his hair follicles, and who was ever going to take those steaks home after he put them where he did, and say, “Honey, get out the grill, for we’re going to grill up some steaks this evening, and invite the neighbors, for we can stretch them a little!”  Worse, would the manager be saying, “Boys, there’s nothing wrong with these babies, for the cops made a clean sweep, so put ‘em back in the meat counter next to the A1,” or perhaps I am giving too much credit to an owner who honestly felt repackaging and putting them in the older meat section was better than losing the sell of however many steaks our hardened criminal could shove in and look natural coming out of a store.

Would they have called the police in to arrest him had he chosen salami or hot dogs?  It is all beside the point to me, that I know stealing is wrong, but the man who shoves steaks down his pants has more problems than theft this society needs to take care of.  He was probably going to take the back to a homeless shelter and give his buddies a bite or two, or could he have been taking them home out of shame that he could not provide for his family.  I do not know, but what I see is the degradation of a person who is apt to be pretty down on his luck to be stealing like that, and could this store manager just not taken him aside and talked to him man to man and worked this out, telling him that he was giving him one chance, and put those in a bag, and I want you to remember that someone saw that you needed this day, and I am giving you a pass.

Stealing is wrong, and he was lucky not to be a poor Muslim where theft requires the hand that took something to be amputated among the under educated and hardened tribal groups where no one is going to get a pass, but we are a rich people.  This man has a family, or I would expect that he does, and should I feel every thief in a grocery store should be looked over — In a case where it causes such shame to a person who has a family; I think there should be an accounting for the deed.  Work a day at the loading dock, or sweep up broken milk cartons, but when a person is found in such a sorrowful position — Can we avoid making it everyone’s business and making a broken human being even more broken.  It is cold in Cincinnati this day, but no one said he had a coat, and would it have made more sense to have used his coat as an implement for hiding his meal.  If he had no coat, did anyone offer him one, so here goes Pollyanna endeavoring to save the criminal, but I just cannot help it.

It is even apt to waste court time, but most of all;  Who was needing to be fed.  How do you not make his children feel lower than worms if he has any?  I do speak of victimless crimes, and this falls in that realm, and I can guarantee you that even if that man smelled like a dung heap, that had I been there, I would have begged to pay for his purchases and sent him along his way.  The damned steaks may have been expensive, but we are America, and we collect food for the needy.  We build altars for our dead, and I have been known to choose the best bananas, when you pull the two worst ones off a nice bunch and you want to make it right.  I think the store would have gotten a lot more good press had they just acknowledged that this seemed beyond the usual crime.  It wasn’t like back in our old town of Winchester, Tennessee when Mr. Gus Larkin and folks noticed that a Gypsy family came in and spread all over the store, so no one could keep up with what all they were taking, because the Gypsy women were carrying babies, and everytime the managers endeavored to put down the commotion of theft, then the nursing Gypsy Moms would expose their whole breast then the store stockers and baggers felt too embarrassed to face the women, for around the parts where I  came from, a lot of people believe exposing breast is a fully private moment.

The story ended back at the old home store when news came that up around Tullahoma, pulling off the same crime, using breast to make gentle men and women feel they had to turn their heads;  Real store security nailed the criminal in the police kind of way and put their sorry asses in jail for absolute thievery.  Where will the story be tomorrow about our criminal and his sirloins or t bone steaks? My prayer is that if it winds up in court that Mr. Jeff Ruby or one of our other citizens who gives much back to the community will offer the judge money for the stolen and give the man a little work, just sweeping, catching frogs with fat legs for Mr. Ruby’s restaurants, but would they just let this one go, let the man have his meat and let his family eat some too, because, for the dollars it cost,  I would argue that such a man needed more shame on his plate, nor does his family.  Sometimes, if their lives are too dysfunctional, then it can be a door to receive needed counseling, connections with food pantries, as well as an opportunity to be treated within the mental health facilities.  We can make a joke about every portion of the crime; “Was his meat solid or just half frozen,” or, “How was he going to get out of the store without someone wanting to measure that thing??”    I can write humor in to dark places, and “Pinkhoneysuckle,” the book uses every opportunity to keep people laughing through their tears — So I will be the, “Kill Joy,” who had to stop laughing, for I will find human stories which are just a little to sad to tell.

Our Bishop of Rome, had he been there, I believe Blessed Frances that the crime was not the stolen steaks; No, it is that we always leave our poor the scraps and  ground fatty ground meat from more cows than we can imagine.  He would not only have paid the man’s debt, but he would have seen a need and filled it.  We are all capable of doing pastoral work, of letting our hearts to be wide enough that no one should be hungry.  Please do not go out and shop lift any thing this day, because you hope a person of faith will endeavor to rescue you, for I only wish to make the point that sometimes the need overwhelms the bottom line.  In the book, “Angela’s Ashes,” there was a chapter about a Christmas when the whole family had no more way to make any food, so that Christmas Eve, the butcher showing how generous he was managed to find a sheep’s head to give the family, and they sat around as the mother tried to cook what was a disgusting sheep’s head, and sees her children endeavoring to find some marrow in the bones, for any good part had been cut away, and that Christmas was just among the most hurtful, for there was no work, and what the butcher gave to them was fit for a couple rogue dogs,  Was this a gracious act from a kind butcher, I asked myself, and I realized what a lout the butcher was, that he knew he was going home to feast while a family without would almost choke on pieces which came from the pathetic sheep’s head. Remember such examples and let us not only give of ourselves but to give our best, not missing the chance to offer our forgiveness when appropriate and our best when needed  This day, may we seek to protect those who are shamed. 

Good Night from my partially open brain. I will clean up the blog when the critters I am coping with march on to another guest of,  “The Friendly Skies.!!!

Barb

Barbara Everett Heintz, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” my book can be found on Amazon, Create Space, and Kindle

I hear that message so many times when we are watching news about gang killings when evening news comes on, and, sadly, in America, it is usually a poor mother whose child has had little education and certainly has not traveled the world.  The police will have found the guns which may have gone through a home closed up for the night; and we have all witnessed as the police are being filmed measuring off the murder sites.  A person had to shoot to be initiated, or a young man — Most often, young men — has to get back for an opposing gang member had their eye on his honey of the day, and as unbelievable as that sounds, it happens in almost every American city where it is though a good year keeps it below that hundred mark of dead.  I have seen drugged out mothers weaving and weeping, “Oh my baby is not guilty,” and the people around her cry loudly, shout at police — Not always without cause, but there are too many times when they have shot, a neighborhood child is killed, a baby, a beautiful girl, and not even a mom who is a junkie wants to hear that her child has killed and lost the rest of his manhood to federal or state prisons where they adapt and life lives which are always dangerous, always without, and they will never really grow a lot in their minds beyond what years they got to be young.

I can feel them, for I had three boys,y and I love each of them to the point I would give my life, for we all would do just that, all of us who got the death warning first;  We would want it to be us and not our child.  I believe the junkie mama, and I believe the mother who worked all day, and came home to a fatherless house made dinner, then endeavors to help what she can to find school clothes for tomorrow.  ” God, ” Do you hear me, for I want you to know that we are mourning every son and daughter whether lost as American Warriors on foreign soil, and we grieve for those children who felt so desperate that they take their own lives and, only if you are lucky, do they leave you a note about what drove them to that point.  I do not want to give up my grown up sons, my daughters, my grandchildren.  Some, I may think needs a few hours with my Dad to do one day of work with him to just imagine the cost of why they are so lucky, but mothers will not turn the hungry child away, and the one who thirst is welcomed back in if there is a way to resolve the thirst.  We are mammals, and we nurse our young when possible.  We react when a little sniveling brut endeavors to hurt them.  One Halloween when some brat kids below us on the hill pushed my Matthew and his friend down and hurt them as well as their candy was all taken, so I loaded the kids up in my VW bug at the time, and I was so incensed that Halloween candy would be taken from five year olds, and I was so tired after doing a double shift at the hospital that I was going after those little bastards who made our baby’s bleed, and when the boys asked me what I was going to do when I found them, I said, “I am going to run over them!”  “God spoke,” the children in the back seat at least, and I was told, “Mama, you can’t run over those big boys, and then I figured it would be alright just to find them and pick up one big stick and whack them across the rear a few times, but again, “God called,”  Mama those boys could have knives, we’ve got some candy at home.  We start early endeavoring to rescue our children, we mothers, and for some the rescue will not me made. 

The neighbors got the news, so dear Mary Beasley went around and by the time we got home two new sacks of candy appeared, and through the years, there did remain that the Heintz house always has food, but if you are going to try to steal something; “Mrs. Heintz might make you loathe the day you were born.”  I just so adamantly have feelings about what is wrong and what is right, and I endeavored to use everything from the poets to scripture to give our children a wonderful life, but I got cut down really hard, for one of my boys got into drugs beginning with a 30 year old tramp who rewarded growing boys with what they discover better than any bag of candy.  She was using kids to support her own habit, and I will say that at a critical moment, she helped us find a missing child.  He would grow older, keep screwing up, and one day we would go in and the family therapist sent him out of the room and gave us this news, “Mr. and Mrs. Heintz, your child is a moderate to severe drug addict, and you need to get him in in patient care before it is fully too late.  “You have got to be kidding, our son on drugs; No, not our son,” said I, and in those days we took inheritance money and sent him to Minnesota to the Wilson Center where he would later brag that he got better drugs. and he came out worse than he went in.  There is a happy end to this story, for when he wound up with a daughter — His life took a sudden turn, and from then to now, he is one of my lawyers sons, a shining light in his community, and his home and his wife are wonderful places to be.  It was my child though, the one I was in disbelief, but it would take another five years for it all to work through the horrors, and my heart felt like stone every day.  How very full of myself I was to believe that I raised all perfect children.  But the denial I had was no less than every Mom I think of who has gone through broken times.

“Good sense,”  Can we look today at a woman whose son is living in The United States and who has a 19 year old boy at Beth-Israel Hospital in Boston if I remember correctly, and today she was coming to be at the bedside of her boy who 8 months ago was a wonderful student, but something terrible happened.  He had an older brother who obviously had gone back to Russia and had come back with news for his little brother, that showed us to be at war with Islam, we Americans, the Infidel to all that is Holy to so many different tribes of Islam.  In their heads, we are there to kill the law of Mohammed and all of the governing law of the Quran, and far more in the culture this boy comes from is the construct elders have in power over their children, so a 26 year old man decided to destroy his brother, to make him a martyr, and he knew the promise from his elders that then with his brother they would be in Heaven, virgins and bliss, peace from this earthly life, and probably picturing proud parents that they would die from such a cause of punishing America once more by taking down another symbol of something which seemed pleasant, simple, for the wounded, for the rich, and for the poor, all people along a 26 mile stretch of Boston would have the wind, their joy, three lives, plus another critically wounded from home made bombs — Just like the ones which have maimed our service men and women so severely and The Boston Marathon would never be without a need for remembering those who died from here after in a war on our streets.

I see the picture of that boy still living,, and I know that is life is in as much as over, for some living find comfort in this — That he may never talk again, that he will never be a good student again, that falling in love is useless for him, and he will certainly not get extra cosmetic surgery to  build a new esophagus, for people will want to see wounds.  I am aware that most of you see him as only a free will activist for a sorry Imman who taught a miserable message of hate, but I have been sick, watching much TV, far more than I usually watch, but I felt a familiar pain today and tonight.  A beautiful mother in a scarf so brilliant that I could not define if it was yellow or golden, but it looked like it was spun by moon Gods.  She walked along, the reporters chasing her, and she answers over and over again, “I am Mother, and a Mother knows,”  these are not my sons!”

I wanted the reporters to get away from her while she believes, “These are not my sons,” and she will be chased every where she goes for every detail about how she raised such monsters.  On arrival in America, she will see her baby boy who can no longer speak, and the body of her other son will not give her the peace of a Holy Burial, for the time has paced, and every mark on him will be there for the parents to identify,  and then, only then will she break and fall, weep the mourning which is a wail, a cry for mercy for her one living boy; and she will say, “You have killed my sons,”  and the hate will be intensified by every member of her family still in their village — “Those dogs, the Americans have killed our good boys,” and then vengeance will be sought; we know not where or when.  I wish that I could ease this mother’s pain, for it will not make sense when she sees that one child died, and the other was a follower of his brother, so hate it plants its seeds.  They ruminate, and there springs forth the line of death. Vengance and violence will go to ever warren where those who believe we are the Infidel walks.  It is over their heads and in their minds, and I feel like laying a memorial somewhere to a foolish child who was taken over by his brother, a boy who once loved school, and he would have been an exemplary student had not all of this happened.

Time, and the families of the people who died and who are wounded will watch the law try this boy who was a foolish follower.  I just wonder when are we going to start our fighting in another way.  I thought the mother was beautiful, and she was well spoken, so who will comfort her.  Could she be treated as humanely as any other broken hearted mother; And can we show the world that we are somehow better than people who must hide behind secret codes and home made bombs.  Can we feel sorrow that she will finally have to admit that her sons are now both, as much as dead.  I think the day is coming when we, of our own free will are going to need to show that we know this woman raised sons to do better things, to become productive people,  so I will pray for her family, though so many would say that I am committing a horrible deed.  I see the little 8 year old boy who died, the fresh faced  beautiful women who had to be laid to their rest, and for all of those with shratnel wounds over their bodies, I want to love and bless them.  I will send to The Red Cross, but I think we may be on to something if the women who are Muslim begin to help cross a bridge no man or men can build.

“I am mother,” she said, so could we please know that she hurts like the poor women of Oakland and Chicago where gangs are rampant.  It is time to meet the women, even the Muslim women in our own communities.  I am confessing here on Xanga, that I feel anxious around Muslims in groups, and I have a very difficult time just saying, “Hello.”   It all sounds as if I want to play nice on the play ground, but this is not play ground, for we are trying our showing our Warrior Spirit, and some will remain on the sands of deserts where there was little that remained — So places of burial are sacred, and we feel humbled as we lay flowers for the warriors.  I just think that this woman, the mother of the two bombers deserves compassion — And we need to let that compassion  begin to take root and to spread the news to the killers that their Mothers, and it may not be a birth mother, and it may only be  a father, but if evil is to leave our land of plenty,  that we have a golden opportunity to show that we are not blood thirsty Viillans .  Please let President Obama meet this woman and give her his condolences, for we have used the guns and bombs, so it is time to let the women know the American Spirit.  I long for the day when you, like me can look out over this land of ours and live the incredible moments when soldiers are state side, helping to save cities which are flooding and going in to gang land as adjunct to our needy police forces.

I am so sorry for you, the mother who will see her wounded child and lay her head on his chest where she will hear the same heart beat which she heard before he was born.  Just leave her alone our American press corps.  Leave her alone you who are so angry, and let her deal with the pain of lost children, for she is simply their, “Mother,” and one whose life has changed forever.  We have no reason to punish her.  “Take care of all who grieve Dear Lord,” and let us begin chipping away the mountain of hate.  I beg for such grace.”   Barbara Everett Heintz, Author of, ‘Pinkhoneysuckle,” See reviews on Amazon, and thank you for stopping by this day.

Old friends may get tired of reading this, but there are things we must do in life, and I take some time each month or so to say, “Thank you,” to the Xanga friends who have ordered my book.  I will repeat that, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” has been seen my many to be the untold story which should have been on all of the front pages of newspapers almost 60 years ago.  The Diaspora and removal of the southern Appalachian farm families from their garden to table way of life — Our propensity to waste nothing, our strange custom of not turning in our neighbors — Even if their living was moonshine all came together in, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” my book which is a story of one child who becomes a woman during this time period of the early 1950s when, “Making a living,” was dependent on an entire family’s willingness to forego worldly goods to endeavor to be as fully independent of what needed to be bought at a store as little as possible.  We were the original organic farmers, and I was three years old when we had our first electricity in our house.

From the top of Sand Mountain, the southern most tip of America’s longest walking trail which goes all the way to coastal Maine, we were the hidden people with our own religious preferences, and our public schools which always was mixed with religion and patriotism, for each class room was either going to have a picture of Presidents, Washington, Jefferson, and Lincoln and a Holy Bible even if someone brought it back from a motel.  We learned scripture, and we learned Shakespeare, for memorization was still a valued lesson.  When people suffered a fire, all women gathered at the local churches and started quilting, for nothing, absolutely nothing went to waste.  Rags became quilts of many colors to give to families who lost everything.  Most of us only knew, “Home Cooking,” and we would pick other people’s cotton to make enough money to buy our school shoes and a couple of dresses, and if people sent over a box of someone’s out grown clothes, I can earnestly say that we simply wept to find something we could wear.

Once a year our mother made an order from the Sears and Roebuck catalog, and in that order, she would try to get us all some under clothes, and bless her heart, if she ordered herself a dress, that dress would be worn until it was thread bare.  Our mother lacked the skills of many women of knitting and sewing, though she would try her best.  We did not own a pair of gloves or a hat for winter, and if we had a coat — Then we were lucky, for it was passed down from someone.  Our lives were not even as modern as the Amish who had not moved that far south then.  I think we felt our most poor when winter came along, for Tennessee is a  Mid-Atlantic state where we moved, and it could get colder than out on Sand Mountain where we left the heart of our family.  We were encouraged to move by an Uncle, my mother’s brother who had no intention of moving us for a better life, for what he saw in us was a bunch of farm hands, and I bother to explain all of this to you to endeavor to explain that we lived in an almost less than 3rd world environment.

My book gives you the phases of poverty which have not been taught to you from any text book.  It is hard for you to understand that while The Civil Rights movement was going on, that thousands of us in the farmlands deep off the main roads had been selected to be modern day slaves, but white kids like us did not get their pictures taken for National Geographic or Life Magazine, for it was not intended for you to know that an entire population of people were being used by those who had the larger crops.  I definitely had my own cotton sack by the age of five years, and when I was about eleven or so, I could pack a sack of cotton so full that when it was time to empty our sacks, I once with grit and my knee hoisted a bag of cotton which weighed 90 pounds, more than I weighed, but I really needed some new school clothes.  Kind people paid you four dollars for one hundred pounds picked in a day, but people would keep lowering it, and there were times it would be only two dollars, and Uncle Ralph announced that we were family, so we were not getting any pay at Granny’s farm.  We did not get to go in and eat with the cousins, for being called, “The Bunch,” Uncle Ralph would go to the store and start handing out tins of beanie wieners and some meat sticks which I read what was in them off the side and would try to choke them down knowing that I was eating trash meat with beef heart and brains in it.  My sisters had taught me to read playing with their school books.  We got one cola, and maybe he would give us some twinkies while the others were in having chicken, ham and vegetables, to when this Uncle died, I knew God ran him off the road as he drove back with a load of cows from Alabama.

“Pinkhoneysuckle,” though is going to show you how the government with their, “Pay not to plant,” money did not come near making a crop’s worth, so almost over night, men losing their homes, for no mortgage could be paid, found any old car that was running and went north, thousands and thousands, and they would find cheap rooms or a filthy apartment on a known flood plain, and many — Like my Dad would do that for 6 years, shoveling straw at The Tuthill Brickyard, coming home when he could, and we kids and Mama were left to run the farm with my 15 year old brother to plow and do the wood hauling by himself — so one year of that, and he left too.  Mother began to lose her mind, so the violence became more.  She was out of control, and all of the neighbors knew it, but maybe they thought the screams were play.  Mrs. Hannah, our angel, told us, “I hear you little children crying back there,” and she was worried.  The county could have taken us, but we would have wound up back in houses of aunts and uncles who worked us to death, so we hid as much hurt as we could

All of you thought we were a bunch of coal minors, now did you not?  No, we were farm kids, and adults too soon, for we were broken in every way possible; But our Daddy told us we were going to get an education, and when he was around, the books came out.  Our problem was paper, for a lot of time we could not afford paper, and our folks did not know about the big packs you could buy up town, so we would erase a lesson to do another one for the next day.  I do not care if you believe that any of this was going on, but Dr. Martin Luther King traveled around and he saw we cotton picking kids, and he wanted us as part of the marches on Washington, but the NAACP figured we had more than our share, thinking somehow white folks always got more.  Reading my book, you will learn a lot of history of religions, blacks, whites, and how we treated each other == Because whatever you have thought before, you are apt to be wrong.

Folks who went in to the auto industries decided they had enough money to bring whole families north, so what they came to were flood planes, schools worse than ours, and more trouble to get in to, so most of us wanted Daddy to know that it was way better that we never saw where he lived.  His worst times with us was when the Uncles thought it was fun to get him drunk, and those situations tore our house up for weeks.  You have not read these American stories, our stories, for we never complained, but we hid for fear of what people would think of us.  Read of my own coming of age, and learn the distance we would go to make our parents proud, for we knew how they had been the black sheep in both families, and now that we are older — We know the false friends to my mother within our family, those who made fun of her despair, but if you follow my book and hold on, then you will find the redemptive powers of a family who believed that all people deserved better.  The sweet little farms are gone now, the dreams, and our folks passed away, but we left them pride beyond any thing which they could have imagined.

I hold nothing back from the shame which was inflicted on me, to the relationships I would not know how to handle when I left for the city; But go ahead and laugh when you feel like it in my book, for it has humor, and you are going to cry some.

I am happy to say that I have a television interview on channel 64 serving this tri-state, and I will be recording a radio show for WVXU which serves the tri-state.  I am so honored that world traveler and television and radio star, Kathryn Raaper has found my book, and she will host me.  She hopes for me to see either a Sundance Film, A Documentary, or even a Hallmark Hall of Fame show out of this, so read about this wonderful woman, and know that on May 18th, I will be on a syndicated television show with her, and then to top it off — I have the wonderful Lee Hay who is here in our tri-state area a wonderful interviewer with whom I will pre-record on May 22nd,  for her WVXU scheduled program of local interest for this tri-state area of Ohio, Indiana, and Kentucky.  A radio show with Kathryn will come later, so after being very ill, I am getting this book launched.  Most of you know that it won 2012 Book Festival Awards in San Francisco, an Honorable Mention, and in Hollywood California, for the Book Festival there I received 1st in my division for Wildcard, a book of mixed genre’– History, coming of age, redemption, and pulling it all together.  I thank my judges so very much, and if all goes well — We are working to secure a book signing at Joseph Beth, among the nicest book stores remaining, for it is others who have seen this book as Faulknerian, Humorous, and an incredible tale.

I have been able to share it at The Santa Rosa Book Fair to help their food bank this past winter, as well as to show it below my hone in San Francisco at a progressive church in Noe Valley.  Maybe my time has come, and if it has, I will thank and praise every Xangan who came along with me.  I want to thank you all, for I learn so much from what you write, and I will readily tell you that I have, in no way, recovered the cost of publishing, but to get the message out for the beloved people who changed my life so long ago, the living and the dead, I must continue the work, and if I have a miracle such as a film or documentary — Then I will see the mothers, fathers, and little children getting up a dawn and getting the animal care done, so they could make it to the cotton patch, I feel their presence in each step further which I go, and I will not leave them alone ever.  I am their voice, and The Southern Appalachians torn apart as good farmers may look back to its roots for a bright future.

Thanks again for checking in, for purchasing books, for prayers, and the kind wishes.  Many ask me advice about getting a book out there to sale, and I must be truthful that I have worked between illnesses, and I write dozens of letters outside of Xanga, and for the first time; Praise God, my Cincinnati audience is going to learn about where I am from along The Appalachian Trail.  I must carry the message on, and among my latest readers is a very educated young interpretor from Wahon  a city in The P.R. of China.  I can earnestly say that I am moving up globally, and I thank God for this.  My Xanga friend, Vegas Mike picks me up and pushes me onward when I am down.  Many find my brother’s prologue to the story simply great, and he, as did I said that we were going to put the truth out finally.

My blessings to all, and there is no magic to any of this.  If you are a writer people have found they wish to read more of, then to take it up the first 20 story mountain, then you are on about step 3, even after all the work which I have done.  Apologies too, that I still have some few errors which bug me if no one else, but you would be apt to read over them not knowing they are there.  I respect that it is important to clean up our books, and everything has a cost, but if you believe in what you are doing as strongly as I feel about getting the word out about, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” then you will rise up and take each battle on one by one.  I do wish to give you the loudest warning that if you are using a publishing company — Please have a legal person read the fine print of your contract.  You can, “Play it safe,” as I did and use Amazon’s arm of publishing.

Bless you all at the Fountain of Life, and keep writing.

Lovingly, Barbara Everett Heintz

We are shown pictures this day of those who are apparently the evil beings of those who planted the bombs which killed and maimed the best of citizens at The Boston Marathon, and I expect they will be the sort of people, not too unlike Timothy McVeigh who was put to death, and who never apologized for killing all of the people and the little children in the Oklahoma Murrow Building bomb blast, and I want to make it clear that it is my own personal belief that a society who kills those who have murdered is committing the same horrible sin.  I do not doubt that there is so much more known by the FBI and all agencies involved, for in that area of Boston, there are apt to be cameras everywhere, and the worst fear is that even more people will die, for these criminal maniacs did not have enough time to cover their tracks.  I write many things, and I believe that I could write about murder, but I do not know that I could go that deeply in to the mind of a psychopath, for I just do not think of evil and horrible ways of changing the world everyday.  When one even thinks innate objects absorb feelings, “Oh, I need to use that silverware tonight, or it may feel too useless to me.”  I do not know what kind of person takes on these qualities, but a friend and I laughed a long time ago, for it turns out that she believed the same thing, so when you say, “You are as dumb as a box of rocks,” go easy for my box of rocks might just come after you.  It is really no different than a child who just knows their toys will be sad if they do not get a visit from a certain little friend when they wake up in the morning, so I am not one who could make a judgment that someone should die.

Timothy McVeigh, to my knowledge was put to sleep, and it was no different other than the chemical which stopped him from taking a last breath which was his life’s end, and I felt so hurt that day, because we gained absolutely nothing, and those looking from the viewing gallery and calling that justice, closure, and all of these words which can have great meaning but are tossed around like a volleyball by those who have heard them so many times from the O. J. trial to the people who want to be in a chamber to make certain someone died for the heinous sin which they committed.  Death is simply too easy.

I believe as a San Franciscan that every one should have a tour of Alcatraz, for one can go through and get some feeling before the tour is over of what it would be like to live in prison in a miserable place for all of the days of your life, and if people took the tours, both day and night — I believe they would come back believing that there is some living far worse than dying, but they closed Alcatraz, and to my understanding, most prisoners have both television as well as exercise yards, and three meals per day — even if it is not restaurant quality.  A level of cleanliness is expected, and they have a toilet to sit on, sheets are on bed frames in most places, but this is life day in and day out.  Prison libraries are used by some to help them pursue degrees, but then, there was Alcatraz.  It is freezing, damp, and the worst punishment was when San Francisco was throwing a party as on New Years Eve, and here, they sat on, “The Rock,” as Alcatraz was called.  They knew they would never know such joy again if they were lifers.

A society which answers murder with the right to be murdered or who kills refuse human beings before they even see a court room has done nothing to curtail the on-going insanity of murder which just feeds on its own tail, the snake, the lizard, what ever you want to call death.  People who blow up other people to bits are certainly not going to be too curtailed by the fact you are going to have a shoot out, for I think they think dying is going to make their followers see them as heros and saints, that they died for whatever displaced and arrogant thoughts which they probably learned from radio talk show with people like Rush Limbaugh.  I do not see these criminals as taken, for most think they are prepared to die.  Alcatraz was a model of misery, and I am going to risk stating that prison for life in an institution known to be miserable and cold is apt to be a deterant to the heinous criminals that a quick death which they are promised, no matter how they wind up dying.

Maybe the time has come to find another place out in the middle of shark infested waters where there is no hope, where the ability to escape is even less likely than in Alcatraz but where hours and days become years, and the right of the families who have lost could come to see them and to scream at these immoral souls who kill among the most beloved of God’s children.  As long as we are a society who believes in a murder for a murder, then we are as evil as the perpetuators, because we have broken first among the oldest and the great commandments, “Thou shalt not kill.” I was raised on that as were many of you, and even when I was a child to hear that someone was going to get the gas chamber, or they were going to the electric chair, I used to think that was just too easy for those who destroy life.  If we catch these fellows tomorrow, they will not be taken alive, and so many will say, “Thank God that is over and done with?”  For whom, the parents will never recover and many of the people will be tormented with the memory of a child, a lover, a sibling, or a parent until the end of days.  What does killing do but make these idiots who murder the essence of folk heroes after they are executed, for some one else is going to be mourning the death of the person who lost their way of life.

I see Alcatraz as having been a model prison, but I did feel sorry for the vicious, “Bird Man,” who was so mentally ill that he needed to be a ward of the state.  He was violent, devastatingly violent, but he was also pathetic, so should he have been in mental health care, or should he have been in the cold solitary confinement of Alcatraz.  We are such a violent nation, and it is becoming worse, for sheer economics purposes.  We closed down our best of the worst criminals over the face of our land.  I propose to you that there is far worse punishment than death, that these people should go to prison and feel the humiliating of never having a day to scheme or plan again.  I just have to ask, “How is it that having all of the essentials human being basically receiving comfort and treatment in sickness and in health being given three meals per day, a time to study and to read, but also receiving a life sentence with not chance of parole.  I think we need stricter penal institutions and people put away for their evilness of death and zero compassion, for I can tell you that dying just feels alright, for they die, and people will write a dozen books about them and what lead to their death,

Let us see the vindication of these murderous souls as life, not the circle to death.  Oh God would you help us to understand that murder begets even worse disease, and a crime so bold as this absolutely has no chance of sharing the lesson to the young that life has choices, and that murdering simply gives younger people the idea that the pain of loss is vindicated.  Have mercy on the wounded souls, and have mercy on us; “Oh God,” that we tell the public the truth that killing criminals is just creating more criminals,  to go out in a blazing gun battle with the innocent.  Killing is far too easy on the hardest of hearts, so Sweet Lord of all, hear our prayers that this country gets out of the business of murder, for satisfaction for the relatives will pass over the sorrowful cry — That the criminal had little to lose, and less of a heart.//  Always,  Barbara Everett Heintz, writer of, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” the book available to Amazon, Kindle, and Create Space.

We are shown pictures this day of those who are apparently the evil beings of those who planted the bombs which killed and maimed the best of citizens at The Boston Marathon, and I expect they will be the sort of people, not too unlike Timothy McVeigh who was put to death, and who never apologized for killing all of the people and the little children in the Oklahoma Murrow Building bomb blast, and I want to make it clear that it is my own personal belief that a society who kills those who have murdered is committing the same horrible sin.  I do not doubt that there is so much more known by the FBI and all agencies involved, for in that area of Boston, there are apt to be cameras everywhere, and the worst fear is that even more people will die, for these criminal maniacs did not have enough time to cover their tracks.  I write many things, and I believe that I could write about murder, but I do not know that I could go that deeply in to the mind of a psychopath, for I just do not think of evil and horrible ways of changing the world everyday.  When one even thinks innate objects absorb feelings, “Oh, I need to use that silverware tonight, or it may feel too useless to me.”  I do not know what kind of person takes on these qualities, but a friend and I laughed a long time ago, for it turns out that she believed the same thing, so when you say, “You are as dumb as a box of rocks,” go easy for my box of rocks might just come after you.  It is really no different than a child who just knows their toys will be sad if they do not get a visit from a certain little friend when they wake up in the morning, so I am not one who could make a judgment that someone should die.

Timothy McVeigh, to my knowledge was put to sleep, and it was no different other than the chemical which stopped him from taking a last breath which was his life’s end, and I felt so hurt that day, because we gained absolutely nothing, and those looking from the viewing gallery and calling that justice, closure, and all of these words which can have great meaning but are tossed around like a volleyball by those who have heard them so many times from the O. J. trial to the people who want to be in a chamber to make certain someone died for the heinous sin which they committed.  Death is simply too easy.

I believe as a San Franciscan that every one should have a tour of Alcatraz, for one can go through and get some feeling before the tour is over of what it would be like to live in prison in a miserable place for all of the days of your life, and if people took the tours, both day and night — I believe they would come back believing that there is some living far worse than dying, but they closed Alcatraz, and to my understanding, most prisoners have both television as well as exercise yards, and three meals per day — even if it is not restaurant quality.  A level of cleanliness is expected, and they have a toilet to sit on, sheets are on bed frames in most places, but this is life day in and day out.  Prison libraries are used by some to help them pursue degrees, but then, there was Alcatraz.  It is freezing, damp, and the worst punishment was when San Francisco was throwing a party as on New Years Eve, and here, they sat on, “The Rock,” as Alcatraz was called.  They knew they would never know such joy again if they were lifers.

A society which answers murder with the right to be murdered or who kills refuse human beings before they even see a court room has done nothing to curtail the on-going insanity of murder which just feeds on its own tail, the snake, the lizard, what ever you want to call death.  People who blow up other people to bits are certainly not going to be too curtailed by the fact you are going to have a shoot out, for I think they think dying is going to make their followers see them as heros and saints, that they died for whatever displaced and arrogant thoughts which they probably learned from radio talk show with people like Rush Limbaugh.  I do not see these criminals as taken, for most think they are prepared to die.  Alcatraz was a model of misery, and I am going to risk stating that prison for life in an institution known to be miserable and cold is apt to be a deterant to the heinous criminals that a quick death which they are promised, no matter how they wind up dying.

Maybe the time has come to find another place out in the middle of shark infested waters where there is no hope, where the ability to escape is even less likely than in Alcatraz but where hours and days become years, and the right of the families who have lost could come to see them and to scream at these immoral souls who kill among the most beloved of God’s children.  As long as we are a society who believes in a murder for a murder, then we are as evil as the perpetuators, because we have broken first among the oldest and the great commandments, “Thou shalt not kill.” I was raised on that as were many of you, and even when I was a child to hear that someone was going to get the gas chamber, or they were going to the electric chair, I used to think that was just too easy for those who destroy life.  If we catch these fellows tomorrow, they will not be taken alive, and so many will say, “Thank God that is over and done with?”  For whom, the parents will never recover and many of the people will be tormented with the memory of a child, a lover, a sibling, or a parent until the end of days.  What does killing do but make these idiots who murder the essence of folk heroes after they are executed, for some one else is going to be mourning the death of the person who lost their way of life.

I see Alcatraz as having been a model prison, but I did feel sorry for the vicious, “Bird Man,” who was so mentally ill that he needed to be a ward of the state.  He was violent, devastatingly violent, but he was also pathetic, so should he have been in mental health care, or should he have been in the cold solitary confinement of Alcatraz.  We are such a violent nation, and it is becoming worse, for sheer economics purposes.  We closed down our best of the worst criminals over the face of our land.  I propose to you that there is far worse punishment than death, that these people should go to prison and feel the humiliating of never having a day to scheme or plan again.  I just have to ask, “How is it that having all of the essentials human being basically receiving comfort and treatment in sickness and in health being given three meals per day, a time to study and to read, but also receiving a life sentence with not chance of parole.  I think we need stricter penal institutions and people put away for their evilness of death and zero compassion, for I can tell you that dying just feels alright, for they die, and people will write a dozen books about them and what lead to their death,

Let us see the vindication of these murderous souls as life, not the circle to death.  Oh God would you help us to understand that murder begets even worse disease, and a crime so bold as this absolutely has no chance of sharing the lesson to the young that life has choices, and that murdering simply gives younger people the idea that the pain of loss is vindicated.  Have mercy on the wounded souls, and have mercy on us; “Oh God,” that we tell the public the truth that killing criminals is just creating more criminals,  to go out in a blazing gun battle with the innocent.  Killing is far too easy on the hardest of hearts, so Sweet Lord of all, hear our prayers that this country gets out of the business of murder, for satisfaction for the relatives will pass over the sorrowful cry — That the criminal had little to lose, and less of a heart.//  Always,  Barbara Everett Heintz, writer of, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” the book available to Amazon, Kindle, and Create Space.

We are shown pictures this day of those who are apparently the evil beings of those who planted the bombs which killed and maimed the best of citizens at The Boston Marathon, and I expect they will be the sort of people, not too unlike Timothy McVeigh who was put to death, and who never apologized for killing all of the people and the little children in the Oklahoma Murrow Building bomb blast, and I want to make it clear that it is my own personal belief that a society who kills those who have murdered is committing the same horrible sin.  I do not doubt that there is so much more known by the FBI and all agencies involved, for in that area of Boston, there are apt to be cameras everywhere, and the worst fear is that even more people will die, for these criminal maniacs did not have enough time to cover their tracks.  I write many things, and I believe that I could write about murder, but I do not know that I could go that deeply in to the mind of a psychopath, for I just do not think of evil and horrible ways of changing the world everyday.  When one even thinks innate objects absorb feelings, “Oh, I need to use that silverware tonight, or it may feel too useless to me.”  I do not know what kind of person takes on these qualities, but a friend and I laughed a long time ago, for it turns out that she believed the same thing, so when you say, “You are as dumb as a box of rocks,” go easy for my box of rocks might just come after you.  It is really no different than a child who just knows their toys will be sad if they do not get a visit from a certain little friend when they wake up in the morning, so I am not one who could make a judgment that someone should die.

Timothy McVeigh, to my knowledge was put to sleep, and it was no different other than the chemical which stopped him from taking a last breath which was his life’s end, and I felt so hurt that day, because we gained absolutely nothing, and those looking from the viewing gallery and calling that justice, closure, and all of these words which can have great meaning but are tossed around like a volleyball by those who have heard them so many times from the O. J. trial to the people who want to be in a chamber to make certain someone died for the heinous sin which they committed.  Death is simply too easy.

I believe as a San Franciscan that every one should have a tour of Alcatraz, for one can go through and get some feeling before the tour is over of what it would be like to live in prison in a miserable place for all of the days of your life, and if people took the tours, both day and night — I believe they would come back believing that there is some living far worse than dying, but they closed Alcatraz, and to my understanding, most prisoners have both television as well as exercise yards, and three meals per day — even if it is not restaurant quality.  A level of cleanliness is expected, and they have a toilet to sit on, sheets are on bed frames in most places, but this is life day in and day out.  Prison libraries are used by some to help them pursue degrees, but then, there was Alcatraz.  It is freezing, damp, and the worst punishment was when San Francisco was throwing a party as on New Years Eve, and here, they sat on, “The Rock,” as Alcatraz was called.  They knew they would never know such joy again if they were lifers.

A society which answers murder with the right to be murdered or who kills refuse human beings before they even see a court room has done nothing to curtail the on-going insanity of murder which just feeds on its own tail, the snake, the lizard, what ever you want to call death.  People who blow up other people to bits are certainly not going to be too curtailed by the fact you are going to have a shoot out, for I think they think dying is going to make their followers see them as heros and saints, that they died for whatever displaced and arrogant thoughts which they probably learned from radio talk show with people like Rush Limbaugh.  I do not see these criminals as taken, for most think they are prepared to die.  Alcatraz was a model of misery, and I am going to risk stating that prison for life in an institution known to be miserable and cold is apt to be a deterant to the heinous criminals that a quick death which they are promised, no matter how they wind up dying.

Maybe the time has come to find another place out in the middle of shark infested waters where there is no hope, where the ability to escape is even less likely than in Alcatraz but where hours and days become years, and the right of the families who have lost could come to see them and to scream at these immoral souls who kill among the most beloved of God’s children.  As long as we are a society who believes in a murder for a murder, then we are as evil as the perpetuators, because we have broken first among the oldest and the great commandments, “Thou shalt not kill.” I was raised on that as were many of you, and even when I was a child to hear that someone was going to get the gas chamber, or they were going to the electric chair, I used to think that was just too easy for those who destroy life.  If we catch these fellows tomorrow, they will not be taken alive, and so many will say, “Thank God that is over and done with?”  For whom, the parents will never recover and many of the people will be tormented with the memory of a child, a lover, a sibling, or a parent until the end of days.  What does killing do but make these idiots who murder the essence of folk heroes after they are executed, for some one else is going to be mourning the death of the person who lost their way of life.

I see Alcatraz as having been a model prison, but I did feel sorry for the vicious, “Bird Man,” who was so mentally ill that he needed to be a ward of the state.  He was violent, devastatingly violent, but he was also pathetic, so should he have been in mental health care, or should he have been in the cold solitary confinement of Alcatraz.  We are such a violent nation, and it is becoming worse, for sheer economics purposes.  We closed down our best of the worst criminals over the face of our land.  I propose to you that there is far worse punishment than death, that these people should go to prison and feel the humiliating of never having a day to scheme or plan again.  I just have to ask, “How is it that having all of the essentials human being basically receiving comfort and treatment in sickness and in health being given three meals per day, a time to study and to read, but also receiving a life sentence with not chance of parole.  I think we need stricter penal institutions and people put away for their evilness of death and zero compassion, for I can tell you that dying just feels alright, for they die, and people will write a dozen books about them and what lead to their death,

Let us see the vindication of these murderous souls as life, not the circle to death.  Oh God would you help us to understand that murder begets even worse disease, and a crime so bold as this absolutely has no chance of sharing the lesson to the young that life has choices, and that murdering simply gives younger people the idea that the pain of loss is vindicated.  Have mercy on the wounded souls, and have mercy on us; “Oh God,” that we tell the public the truth that killing criminals is just creating more criminals,  to go out in a blazing gun battle with the innocent.  Killing is far too easy on the hardest of hearts, so Sweet Lord of all, hear our prayers that this country gets out of the business of murder, for satisfaction for the relatives will pass over the sorrowful cry — That the criminal had little to lose, and less of a heart.//  Always,  Barbara Everett Heintz, writer of, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” the book available to Amazon, Kindle, and Create Space.

Mourning is about to break the silence in wails, in grief, so much grief that the loved ones of those lost in Boston are about to tremble.  It is as if at these moments our legs are clay once more, and we are back at the dawn the making of man, and that child comes forth with the stain and scent of birth, and hearts are bursting for every soul lost in Boston.  I need to morn with other parents whose children are just lost — the fear, the horror, all of the worlds sins packed in these absences, the crudeness of disappearance — Never the absence of love, but murderers on the loose.  Our hours are here to do as we are asked, to let privacy be our watch word, to let the dead be buried, and to pray — Yes pray, even if you do not believe.  Pray as believers, and pray the Masses with the people.  Hold a rosary in your hand, and it will guide you through the prayers.

I have told another Xanga friend that a Mass, or other kind of funeral is the last lullaby which can be sung for the loved one, For the little boy of St.Patricks, — The lullaby of, “Coming Home,” Oh gracious and sweet home of Protestant parent or parents and friends.  Sing with them, and let your voices be heard, for it allows those weeping to hear the comfort on the air. Yes, please sing dear people — For the non-believer, then sing their favorite songs, but lift your voices to lift souls, for again– We are mortified, and we do not know what to do, especially when we we’re not there to go to the souls groaning  in horror and in pain from nails, bolts, steel, and pressure cookers which would blow like rockets, some fragments so small they are passing over us as space debris. 

All the dead are sweet babies to someone, so they need their favorite things, the butterfly they netted, the picture they once drew, and a favorite Holy thing — Oh please give them their things, and if only we could — Then the clock would have stopped, and a voice would call, “Move no further.”  I believe that some survivors will tell us, that something within was uneasy, but the grand race was on, and to be negative would have caused some humiliation; “Do not go on,”  many will understand this was Angel speak, but it seemed irrational to be afraid, so a runner would run, and a family would band together as they did at all special events — These precious beings will remember and may not be able to bear the news that something, just something wanted them to fall before the race was done.  Angels, miracles you are, for some just wanted to laugh and gather homeward.  I know how some of these things happen, only when I feel too much terror, I make it known that I will do what my Holy Muse has hinted.  Heaven sends the open arms, but the little one will fly on by for fear of the worst makes no sense when you are the willful wind.  I understand.

Let us sing the stories of the, “Breaking of The Bread, and taste the sweet winem and the dead may have each; Just a crumb of bread for the journey, and a drop of wine for the mouth, Vat I Cum, food for the journey.  And let us all feast the same for those whose names we do not know — But they will come to know us, for our table is spread, and the fruit is in the bowl, beautiful fruits — the oranges, the apples, the perfect bunch of grapes, for the scent fills the air, and your goodness to share spreads past death and wafts over time — We can be wonderful servants for the living and for the dead.  A candle’s light will show the faces in the dark as the bless you for the wine and for the fruit and for their lives == Bitter were the demons who took them, but it is done.  Just prepare the table and invite the spirits in, something which I believe, but you may not be ready yet to believe the same.  I walk in bare feet over gravel and the stinging of fire ants and cried out so many times to get this far, so I understand disbelief, for I bled and felt fire to come to this place the secret abyss which I carry.

Oh Senators, “Shame;” you are so shamed when you ignored the dead, and let parents grieve before you knowing that you had heard their children’s names, and the clipping were in your desk that some comfort may have come from one vote, just your vote cast, because you are human and not a slave to the bearers of arms which fire and fire until so many are dead the pool of blood is still hot and has the consistency of just flowing from those who lived a moment ago  What ignorant pawns you are!  What sinners live in Washington and strut like cocky geese feeding on the excesses of money from others who found you to be the silly pawn who would make promises, an lie; How you would lie for them, the ultra rich who bought your place to keep their hands in politics.  We are not ignorant; No, we know that it takes dollar bills to line your trail from whatever state allowed you to take your seat, but they did not understand that every one of you are bought like the cheapest garage sale book with the last pages torn out, so that you will not be able to know the story’s end or where it began of babies who keep dying from the loaded guns to which you aspire.  I cannot help this, but to regard you as evil as any devil, as without conscious as any falling bolder who does not mind a few dead now and again.  Shame that you would not make all accountable for the guns they own; Shame, that this day somewhere, a child will find a loaded gun and fire, and again the parents will wail, their grief around your neck.  I pray that you know that we are on to you and the money trails, that we talk as friends, and no longer are we fully guided by what is reported, for we know how you are willing to lie.  “Support The NRA,” you agreed that you would, and you have.  Shame! Pure shame, and you will perish someday with little children’s fear and their blood dripping from your cyanotic hands, for the mortal you will die and pass away.  The Senator you will be on our list, for we are Holy People, and to clean the house in Washington; the list of names who voted for no further gun controls are ones we are going to take out, not with a gun — But with a vote.  I beg the parents of Sandy Hook to make the list, and to leave the names over the faces of their children — Yes, we are going to send you away from Washington, for it is now all of us, the people, and we are on to you.

Little Amish girls and boys and Columbine, shopping mall, theater and now where people were so joyful running in a race; How could you bastards fail us, and how do you think Washington will go on as usual.  Are we not speaking more loudly each election?  Where is thy sting on, “Death and Murder,” — “On more than 60 senator’s desk,” cried the dead children as they pass on by, and parents can barely pick up their feet, bemoan the loss of faith, but I tell them: “Only demons sanction the horror of disbelief, all of mortal’s pompous fools who would not give up the money road for other children to live.  That is death, those who make the money trails and hide behind sanctimonious titles, the Washington aristocrats.  The same who sent sons and daughters to die where they cannot win, and still leave just enough there to hear of an American child murdered again.  I am not the arbiter of punishment for the rogues who untimely walk the Capital steps, but I will listen to the children and the parents who are passing by to take the roses which you send to cover up the scent of injustice which has lingered far to long.  ”Justice,” I call it by name, and I beg to see the day when it waltzes in, for we Americans have fallen too many times when Justice was not in the room, for it cannot sit where such egos rule and the bombs continue to flare.

Let the mothers and fathers, the sisters, brothers and all friends and families sing the farewell lullabies, and know that  our hearts are filled with prayers for each of you  We are shamed, for we do not know what else to do for you.  We are here from Columbine to Sandy Hook.  We will march with you, so call your drummer to lead us.

Love and Prayers, Barbara Everett Heintz, Author, “Pinkhoneysuckle

Also Author of “Pinkhoneysuckle,” Amazon, Kindle and Create Space

I have missed many evenings of sitting down and letting my fingers decide in a Xanga moment what will weave through my head in to some legitimate conversation, for in some of you; I have found a friend, even if I never see you, I think of you in your corner of the universe, for you have been kind and left words of healing, words of humor, or even simple expressions of deep care, and these are from friends, not strangers.  I almost can hear voices in your words, and I do not make as many comments as I should, for you give to me a richer life, for wealth is only our friends, that we are loved,  and that our needs are provided for physically, mentally, and spiritually.  The social aspect of it differs from person to person as to their need, and my truth about society is that we cannot run away from it, but I do not have to have the strokes of it to prove to myself that I have self worth.  I used to have a lot of parties, and we would go to many parties, run across the street to neighbors, and feel lonely if I did not have visits each day with someone dropping in or just me knocking on a door.

I see many people, certainly older than I am, who just cannot be without the idea that their calendar is full, but something inside me has changed and those needs are so secondary to just enjoying the quiet, the mind’s photographing of the day — an expression some will understand and others will just not imagine that such a life is not lonely.  One reason I have not been blogging was that, per usual, we get either wiped out from moving back and forth between cities, but we always catch someone’s respiratory infection from plane travel, and thus we did. If bird flu comes our way, I certainly hope that most of our children meaning yours and ours from adult to child has had enough exposure to good wholesome dirt to fight off such a horrible and dangerous virus.  That CDC is preparing ahead of time is merciful, for just endeavor to imagine vaccinating an entire population of a continent, and the vaccinations are first given to the care givers, hospital personnel, and those who were in immediate contact with an infected person.  The reason is too obvious — That if the caregivers are wiped out, then it is entirely a survival of the fittest, for one plane load of exposed people can take it from one coast to the other.  “Ain’t no mountain high enough; Ain’t no river wide enough to keep it away!!  With my own background in biology, having just enough to get the picture, especially in micro-biology, the words of this old song ring like a trumpet’s bell  in my ear as I think of these virulent little microbes.

Where do all the companies send folks these days, because the world’s largest market has opened up?  You’ve got it; Beijing, Singapore, and Hong Kong, and I can guarantee you that the industries are not sparing people that travel right now for fear of any chickens being brought in on primitive country carts fresh for the market.  Be certain that it is not boiled fowl which you are apt to get it from.  I am not even going to get started on one of my raves about the older folks knew what they were doing wanting their meat cooked so tender that it fell off the bone,  No, you are not going to hear me say these words today; No sir; “Cook your frickin meat ladies and gentlemen.”  Alright, I am sorry — it just slipped out.” Anyone got any jokes about, “Mad Cow Disease?”   I know that was a cheap shot too, and I should not say that living on a farm for 17 years did teach me that pigs are the filthiest animals outside of the jungle.  I think rats have way better ideas of what they will consume than pigs, and you can wash them up, scrub them down, turn them in to beautiful pork chops, but sweet baby, you have still got a pig, so you want it a little pink?

I have not written in so long that I have forgotten how, except for those photographs in my head, the first day I had fever must have been really high, because I was telling my mother that I could not go to school today.  Mama has been gone for several years, but I could feel her, and I felt really bad, so I had to tell her, “I cannot go to school today, Mama.”  I almost wanted to just lie there, for I thought that I heard her call my name, and I have missed her so very much, but I am so happy she can come across the veil when I am so hot, and when I am sick.  She always gave us coffee with milk and sugar and two aspirin, and I thought that coffee tasted wonderful, but the best was yet to come, for she felt the medicinal powers of Coke, so might just call someone and get a package of colas if her hens were laying enough eggs, for Mama somehow related to pain and on those days we felt love even if she was bickering about the extra work load we were causing her.

Xanga was the farthest from my mind, still on the third day after this latest plane flight induced respiratory devil bastard of a form of the cold virus.  “Devil Bastard,” is about the worst cold you can have, but maybe it was that almost delusional state which awakened me to the sun setting in the evening sky, and as if I had bought the most glorious painting, I woke up to the surreal, for painted on the sky were a few dark clouds under the most magnificent and pink flash of sunlight over the evening sky as darkness was just a magical color of twilight, and for a second I just stared, for from a sound sleep, I thought my imagination was playing tricks, but we are six floors up here, and it was real, the turrets of the building next door were barely visible, but I captured that picture, and I cannot give you one of your own.  You must simply look for a similar evening, your own painting, and capture that moment.  That way it is yours, so you can keep taking it out, keep loving that moment, one my Daddy would have looked at and would have said, “There’s a storm coming in tonight,”  On the fourth day, I could get up, and endeavoring to sleep is futile.  The sound of a train is near the river now, and I can see it coming out on the Kentucky side, the hills of other towns sparkle in a distance.

These moments are simply too valuable to miss, so why must I sleep when I am going to miss so much between now and daybreak?

Barbara Everett Heintz, Author of Pinkhoneysuckle on Xanga, and “Pinkhoneysuckle,” the book, Amazon, Kindle, and Create Space

I want to begin my story by telling you my Grandson Rivvee’s view of God.  Rivven is the Anglican name for Ruthven as we had to inform our son that it would be unkind to have a son with the nickname of Ruth.  This week our Rivvee had this dream, and it was that The Eiffel Tower is God, only it is scary, for God has two heads.  He did enjoy that his vision of God included God holding one great big root beer, and of course — It was ice cold and ready to drink!  Thus Rivvee began a happy day.  He goes to a German bilingual school, for even most of the Jewish families in Cincinnati have German roots with Hebrew University here, though our families left the tribes of Jewish decent long before, or were we just on the other side of the barbeques on the beach.  Remember Jesus and the Apostles hunger at the beach?  What the missed after cooking fish and breaking bread was that nice cold root beer which Rivven knows God is holding on to. A little music like Riv’s decision to sing an entire song of spring to us over Easter dinner he had learned in school and sang beautifully for a boy about to turn 6 years old really amazed us, for he was using his little arm to conduct himself, and if I do say so, he had almost perfect pitch.

We asked him what the words meant, to which he replied, “How should I know?”  “It’s just a German song,” so we gave loud, “Bravos,” cheers, clapped our hands, and he enjoyed himself so much that he asked his Aunt Mary if she wanted to hear it again.  Aunt Mary agreed that the next time she sees him that she would certainly like to hear the whole tune all over once more.  She is the best of Aunts, for she is a vet tech, and every animal is her friend.  She teaches children how to reach for the stranger dog or the new kitty without making them afraid, but I have told you about my Mary before, among the chosen who has the heart of gold from which so many reach in to and do not realize they have met a girl who knows perfect love, our Mary who almost died at birth.

I was looking through Facebook which I open, because the children post pictures there of grandchildren, of themselves, of old friends, and I ran across a beautiful face that I have not seen for a while, and this woman has probably been among the most beloved among little children for the 25 years that I have known her.  A church school recommended her as a student they had who would be apt to be a wonderful child care person when my twins were small, and I would meet, Patty.  She was so beautiful, not wafer thin, but her face was almost angelic, and her eyes were blue.  In the fashion of her church, her hair was long, and she had the blessing of being a natural blonde, and the best part would come after she opened her mouth, for she had a most gentle and consoling voice.  I would learn that she had graduated from a Bible College, that her father had a farm a little north of the city, and she had the most wonderful laugh.  How can we compare a laugh to the sound of bells when there are so many bell sounds to hear, but her laughter was musical.

I would learn that she was to be a teacher at a school that was among the Faith churches around the area that had roots in the early Methodist teachings, and when school began once more, she would be teaching first grade, her dream, to teach in a Christian school where the parents and children knew the ways of The Bible College from which she graduated.  She was so joyful and appreciative that she felt God had a hand in leading her to a job which had virtually no benefits, could hardly pay her minimum wage, and she and her teacher friend could pick up a little extra money by cleaning the entire school every afternoon as janitors, so then I watched her in awe as she met my twin daughters, and I would have her for about two wonderful summers as a child care person and the best friend any one could ever have.  I am always interested in theology, so we could talk a lot about issues of faith, and with no degradation of my own faith; I knew this woman was the kind of person Jesus had been asking for as a follower, because I had never met anyone who was so non sanctimonious, so willing to give all for her belief in the absolute goodness of the Lord.

Patty knew we were Catholic, that we were not attending church at the time, but she also knew that our entire family saw her as a person who had life figured out, that she was out to spread, “The Word,”  through her gentle ways, not to judge, not to lecture, but with no fallacy or intent of preaching, her kindness became the joyful noise which is made when a person accomplishes things without making any loud proclamations or singling out those of us whom she though might be vulnerable to any extra teaching by her.  She was beginning where life was most important, with the little children, the, “Come unto me first graders,” who would thrive in her class learning ABCs and meeting a teacher non would forget.  At times she could not hide a beautiful blush, especially one day when she had to share a story of one little girl she happened to notice in class who was pulling the front of her blouse in points just like she saw as the breast on her Barbie Dolls.  Unlike most teachers, Patty did the right thing, just came in laughing, tears streaming down her cheeks, and telling me what had gone on that school day.

My girls would just run screaming with joy when Patty came in to the house, for they were going to do something fun, so Patty had this way of making time count to teach, to draw, to make letters, to make words, and there was always something new for me to have to hang on the refrigerator after a long evening of ICU or medical/surgical care, for to be with my family more, I would never accept benefits after the first job.  Arranging times as such I could have teenagers as well as little girls taken care of was quite an effort, but as long as Patty was in the picture, we were making it along somehow, even when my husband was on his orchestral tours.

Patty, like me knew the way of the land, enjoyed the time and the seasons, for we had — In very different worlds, grown up in the country.  She could show the children something to look for in the woods behind our house, or to collect leaves and acorns, for all of the earth was sweet and bountiful, “God’s gifts,” for all things, life was a collection of miracles from a gracious and Divine Father In Heaven, something not wasted on me, but she just could show it so much more in the way she would find goodness in times of sorrow.  We had a child at the time who was going through way worse than growing pains, and sometimes Patty would keep me going, because around her you just had to be picking out all of the other signs of wonderful events happening.  “Oh, you should have seen the rope swing Mary climbed today,” for she knew Mary was a stroke survivor.  Catherine would want to dress up in her frills and garlands, but Mary had this innate will to recover from the stroke at birth, and no matter how down I could get, I would hear, the good news, the happy moment, and her memories of God’s Bible College, from where she graduated, and the news from the farm and home.

Soon I would see a new glint in her eyes though, and she began to tell me about a young man who kept dropping by, one she had known most of her life, and his name was, “Leroy,” and yes; As you may imagine.  Things began very slowly in their courtship, swinging at her folks on the front porch swing, laughing and talking about some of Leroy’s bad boy days, but he was coming back to her church, then they were going to church together, and one evening before dark, she brought him to our house to meet the twins whom she loved as if they were her own.  Sometime around Christmas, Leroy and Patty would get married at their home church, and I sat there and wept until I had gone through a box of Kleenex, for my girls would be in the wedding party, “Patty/s girls, and it was a sweet wedding, for they would have the Unity candle, something I knew nothing about, nor had I ever been to a wedding where rings were not exchanged, but that was a part of their faith, that rings were artificially adorations of the body, not the symbol of marriage the rest of us saw.  They had exchanged watches which was permissible, and as church and country folks do, a nice reception followed, but they did not believe in the wine and champagne which we were accustomed to at a marriage. I will confess that I bought an expensive bottle of champagne, and as Patty opened her presents, she just looked at me and laughed, remarking in full humor, “You Devil,” but she also gave me the smile that said, “Leroy and I might just take advantage of this when no one else is looking,” for I knew that Patty was a chaste woman, and she was the essence of the Biblical bride for her groom.  I was crying that night for selfish reasons also, for it would be Patty’s goal to have a little one very soon during the early years of their marriage, but she could no longer be our child helper, for she would be the teacher, the dutiful wife with dinner on the table, and even now, I feel tears welling up in my eyes, not just because my girls are grown, but because I remember how sad it was when I realized Patty now had a home of her own, and our time together as friends would be so limited.  I never thought of her as employee, and for most people who would ever work at my house; it is true that they would leave as a friend.  I was going to miss this woman who could have easily been a younger sister with a deep sadness.

I knew though, this was her time, what she had prayed for throughout her years, for a good husband, for a home near her folks, and for a little one.  I had to stop being an idiot and crying over the loss of the person who shared our house over a couple of years as much as we could get her.  It was the end of Patty trying to tell us stories of her students or of our girls, and I could not grieve watching a friend going forth in the most joyful moment of a serious Faith Church girl’s life.  I just could not wait to hear that a child was going to be born.

Time would pass, and many other challenges and gifts would surface in our lives.  Patty was doing exactly what I thought she would, being the ultimate wife and still teaching at her little school.  There was no time for visiting, and we would only get to see her a couple of times over that next year.  We would have some years which seemed like an awful dream at times, my husband having a bypass surgery, and a little granddaughter would come in to our lives from a difficult relationship one of our sons was involved in.  We would move to a different house, and I would begin a different job, and the visits albeit disappeared.  I would get a call though, for Patty had to let me know that a new baby was on the way, so it was a happy call, and I would hear the joy that was the living fountain, women at ancient wells sharing the good news; “A baby is to be born!”  Only a few weeks later, a friend from Patty’s church community would give me the very bad news, that Patty had lost the baby, so I would call her, and we would talk again, and I would say all of the useless things we endeavor to console women with after a child is lost, and Patty would just say that, “God knew best.”

I would see her at the twins first communion party, and we would begin to loose contact, for she and I both had much more than we could possibly do to take care of all that we needed to.  Some of you do not understand yet how time can wash like the small spring which disappears.  You do not forget the joys, the sorrows, or the people within it.  I knew that our Patty did not have her baby, and the next thing I knew, we were living back in San Francisco, and too many years would have passed, so the next time I would send Dear Patty and Leroy an invitation, it would be after Mary’s graduation as a vet tech from Hocking College in Ohio, and I would have to help Mary put the wedding together with her in Georgia with her betrothed, and with us in San Francisco.  Patty and Leroy were among my absolute first invitations to come to the wedding where the same Priest who gave Mary her first Communion would also be there to marry her to her Kevin who was leaving the Air Force after a long career, and I do not doubt that Patty and I both had the boxes of Kleenex out when our tiny bride in her beautifully chosen wedding gown stood at the front altar taking her vows as a wife.  Oh my!  Mary would have a wonderful day, and usually shy, she was leading all of the dancing, and there was our Patty, and she was now at a different school.  Some gray was appearing in her hair, and after all of the congratulations, she looked at me and said, “You know, we lost our baby.”  I knew then she had forgotten that I knew, but I listened, and I told her those words which I could get out, “Just think of all the first graders you have been a mother to all of these years,” and she said, “I know, God is so good,” and there was even a little laugh which I heard, for she was recalling something from her classroom.

That was five years ago, and I am going to tell you that I may be the last person who you want to contact on Facebook, for I take a quick look now and then, or if I think I have some pictures or a note, but I do not communicate on Facebook, for it is too open for me.  I tell people on Facebook the truth, that if you want to get something to me; Then you can message me, and you will get a response, though I have been a little better as of late.  I looked on Facebook last week, for I wanted to check on Patty, and there I saw her beautiful face, but the smile was gone, so I began to read.  The message is that she has Multiple Myeloma, and it has gone to her bones, so her spine is now fully disintegrated, and there were words of love from others, so I immediately answered.  For you who do not know, and it will be most of you; Multiple Myeloma begins in the bone marrow, and that is when you want to catch it and start the treatment, for then the cells which are supposed to feed and form bone have just misread everything, and the bones can fracture with just moving a patient in a hospital bed which is where our beautiful Patty was when the picture was made.  As usual, the note which I wrote to her asked her to please, go to a larger cancer center where there is a chance to get in to some trials of other and new medications, for this is a ruthless cancer.

Patty’s answer was, “God has been so gracious to me and Leroy, for the friends from church bring prayers, food, and help them however they can.  She said they were thinking of going to a center in Philadelphia which gave me some hope, and she loves her physician here who, ‘Has been so kind.”  I am praying for a miracle, and I want all who read this to pray for a miracle.  Let the first miracle be that she gets some relief from her pain; “Oh please God, Patty has loved, taught, and adored you all of these years, so ease her pain.”  I want her to be a person who is actually healed from some magic stem cell concoction which one can only get in Philadelphia, or I want this to be a night like no others, when the cure for Multiple Myeloma is found.  I want a merciful God to show that miracles are, and I want Patty to see the cancer begin to dissolve, for new bone to form. In all of her pain, that she can respond of the graciousness of God tells me that I do not even know the broad path to loving and trusting God to do the right thing, for I want my friend to be healed!  I will not forsake her again, and I will see that Mary and I get there to see her, and we can let her feel the warm spring breezes on the same swing where she and Leroy courted.  I am talking to my Redemmor, and I am begging for this beautiful soul and spirit by all that is miraculous, glorious, and the blessing of The Holy Trinity to let her be old when I am even older, and let us make up for some lost time.

I am so selfish, for I learned from my Hospice patients, and I learned from my own blood clots, that mercy, goodness, and holiness is not always wishing for saving grace, but I am still asking, and I may never tell you the end of this story, for Patty would tell you right now. “There is one thing I can see looking back at life, and it is all the goodness and gracious deeds which The Good Lord Provides.”  That is her way, and who she has always been, and she will be praying constantly through all of this, not for herself but for the others who are suffering, because we cannot help.  If healing occurs, then it is God’s will, and Patty wants us to stop and not consider the hours but to consider the quality of them. 

I tell you about the angels in my early life who just seemed to appear in, “Pinkhoneysuckle,”, but the story had to end before you would meet my angels like, Patty.  Through her life, I am certain that I met another angel when she entered our home, and a child was doing drugs, when my husband was dying, but no surgeon would do the open heart, for he had a sinus infection which would spread to his whole body on bypass, when I was so tired from work that I thought my body was floating on the ceiling, and people in the room were going to realize I had left my body — That tired, then along came Patty.  I met the gift of grace through blessed intervention of this wonderful young woman who came in to our home, who would be there in times so difficult that I almost wanted to deny that we ever lived such an existence, but this time, this hour, I am just going to ask you to pray for Patty, if only once, and believe that there are people among us who will ask for nothing — But they will give us everything, and there is one message they want us to hear and to feel at the end of any day, no matter the cost, “God, you are so gracious; How can anyone show so much love and kindness.”  When Patty flies from here, she will ask me to remind you of this, the wonderful news.”

“Lord hear our prayer for Patty Cox Cheney,”  even my own selfish prayer for her healing.  Barbara Everett Heintz

May your Easter have been filled with joyful moments, memories, and all which shall remain to sustain us until the blazing seal of Pentecost brings us to the summer heat and all that is in Ordinary Time;  and some of you will not get the Ordinary Time, but trust me it is actually extraordinary.  Any day we are given has some moment which will stand out, and only a few are blessed with the perfect recall of date, time, and hours.

I have been typing along, endeavoring to make up for the foolish mistake of accepting one whole bunch of friends on Facebook.  Now to begin with; let us be truthful, and tell it like it is — That Facebook friends are not apt to be drying their tears over an obituary which features even one half of their newest and best friends, for we all have varying degrees of whom we will accept in that realm of our lives.  Our remarks are casual, and we almost never complete a thought, for it is supposed to be social, and there is an appeal to short thoughts; You’ve been social, spit on your hand, dry it on your clothing, and wipe the sweat off after you have accepted a whole slew of friends.  I send out many blessings, and I usually tell folks, “I will respond to messages, for if any one needs to write me, then they are apt to have a small need for some sage advice or at least, for a kind word, and I will give you either to the best of my ability, and you are in no way obligated to take it, but I like to help where I can.

We had to almost get second degrees in psychology back when I was in the degree program for nursing and health.  Now I think you are apt to be more apt to need a sport lack Track and Field sports, for you are taught to do what you need to with that patient and to move your rear on to hustle out by the time clock at quitting time.  I used to do my patient care, sign out, sit and do my charting for free; but that was determined to be illegal, for I could not write that I was doing all of this charting after the fact, even though most good nurses did just what I did to make the patients feel that you gave one damnable thing about them.  You are there to help make health care dollars, and television states that, “Nurses make a difference.”  Some still really try hard to, but the time clock is your measure of, “Can you get your work done,” assess your patients and to get out on time.  I know things are really bad, for in a so called, really good hospital — They did almost kill me from a blood clot, though I told them it was happening.  A rapid death is a blood clot trying to get skate through your Pulmonary vessels then get stuck in the oxygenated blood where it can then lodge in a heart vessel and take you to that mansion in the sky.  I am carried away with stating, that I will try to help your weary soul, for God’s grace has been there to the point I am running out of lives!  Ye who are weary, I will do my best, and if my best is not good enough, then you need a health professional and not this aging nurse.

Now that you understand that I took on life to feel very responsible for my fellow man, then I want to take you on a brief tour of my Facebook experiences of the evening, for I am endeavoring to be cordial, but I also want to tell them that I, Barbara Everett Heintz, have a really special book out which is called, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” and it is to be found on Amazon, Kindle, and Create Space, and I told this to everyone to whom I needed to thank for letting me befriend them.  Yep!  You do get a personal Post if I bothered you with a friend’s request.  This is just who I am, this think pulled out off some flowery meadow who must say, “Thank you.”  “Oh thank you for doing What?  And to Myself?!  You are a gross out thug and should be placed in a solitary sewer, and it may even be cool down there when the heat is 90 degrees and you are still trying to, “Do that thing to your sorry self.”  My evening of Facebook discovery has had some level of going through a magazine that has one side for the good, turn it over, and then you have found the Nasty Pages — Just plan Nasty.  Look, give me a break, for I endeavored to be a chaste woman for many years, but that is another story, another time.

My most amazing thus far is that I have answered a friend’s request to a Kentucky girl.  She is blonde, though I do know my peroxide from some good store bought colors, and she did the best job anyone could have with peroxide, and she was somewhat an attractive woman, and men were sending little notes sooner than I could read, “Post.”  Here she stands, red, white, and blue bikini on, and the breast — Those breast were, measured by the size of the rest of her body — Fakes.  All was pouring out of that bikini, if I may call those hankies that, and I am telling you, that if she dated a short guy, and came too close, that poor SOB was going to be assaulted with those – A – Well, fluid filled bags of something, for these were lethal weapons, and I do not think they must be a burden to carry around under clothing, for she had EEE’s on a size 10 dress size body.  Next, she joyfully was displaying that she knew her way around the garden with a hose spraying water.  I kid you not, spraying water and leaning back but with forward shots, so there was nothing left to the imagination.  Had she been a very natural looking woman, I may have endeavored to say something like, “I do not know where you live, but if you need a job; By all means, just strut your stuff in to Hooters.”  I did not want to lift her life’s aspirations too high, and luck being that I would say such a thing — I would probably get a really mean letter stating that I was a sullen old bitch who could not take a joke.  This was no joke; this was a primordial animalistic call to a whole bunch of fellows cruising the net.  Even when I had  a body to brag about, my husband would have asked me off of which trash heap I got those rags which the poor thing was wearing.  I felt really bad for her at first, and then I began to presume that if she poses like that for a Facebook photo, then she knows what kind of response she is looking for, so she looked happy!  “Let it be, dear Lord, let it be.”

Some people made me sad, for they looked sad, a dad with two little ones, a girl or two that surely had good hearts, but vivacious would be stretching the truth.  The guy with the Harley has said all they need with one photograph, so they will find their bliss.  I just felt a little stupid endeavoring to explain that even they might be interested in the Diaspora of The Southern Appalachian people, how white ghettos began to grow all over Rust Belt Cities, and the story of a woman endeavoring to crawl out from under the rock she was chosen to bear, but I decided to tell them about the book anyway, for on that Harley could be a man with a brain which could not be penetrated through normal CT scans; No, it may have been so dense that only Superman and Kryptomite or nite or whatever he was vulnerable to could possible have edged in to the density of that brain.  I have to lay off figuring some of these folks out.

One was dressed in a costume straight from Beverly Hillbillies, an old show from my time in the barn, men and women whom I should have quickly matched up for they were meant for each other, their one chance to find everlasting happiness, and I am afraid to share their sites, for I would feel very guilty to match up a, “Born Again,” with a serial killer who just looked somewhat depressed and who did not have a resume.  I would phathom a guess that most of these people were not baptized at The Easter Vigil, and once more that is going to be a curiosity to those who are most used to the, “Altar Call;” same difference, only we had not altar back where I grew up, so they called it an, “Invitation.”  I mean this folks, the three terms are interchangeable, so let know one think you are dumb by responding, “A What.”

There was a divorced woman from Livermore, California, and as miserable as the weather can be in the summertime there, our good friend in San Francisco who lives on a floor of our place said his parents are really enjoying it.  I once took a train out west, and a young lawyer wound up at my table one evening, and I felt pain for him as he explained that he was, not by his choice a lawyer in Livermore.  I felt really guilty for telling him that most of the young lawyers I knew had landed on their feet in great cities, but most of the ones I knew had also come out of Harvard.  I mean it!  I hated myself, but I meant no harm, I sort of took him for an accountant or from Livermore Labs, and when his stop was the one he had to get off to get his bus to Livermore, he looked as if his heart would  break.  I could not think of anything  consoling except to say, “At least it cools down to the 70s in the evening, and I will swear, that kid could not get off that train without a tear in his eye having just come back from East of the Rockies.

Youth, Facebook is surely for the young, and beware of going to your granddaughter’s sight, for you cannot let on that you did not see these words, “Would you f— me, James?”  A grandmother’s face can be read like a sermon, and I had that, “Wait until I get my hands on you my dear little “W—-.” So just do not got there, for you are apt to be shocked, and I am getting too old for the electric chair, still legal in some states.  We used to call ours, “Old Smokie,” when I was but a girl in Tennessee.

I know that I gave this a title, and I stand by my word, that I am not cool enough for Facebook.  One can move along from a person with bonds of faith so deep that the keys of my computer feel the hell’s fire if I do not help more people find their way to Jesus, not to mention that one still has impure thoughts even at my age.  “Oh;  Shut It,” for you too are going to grow old and parts you made over are going to be dragging at the bowling alley.  I have a few friends who send me neat things, wonderful songs, little words of inspiration, a kind thought for the day.  So many people mean well, but I just ran in to this random sampling of, “Friends,” through another friend, and I do not even remember who she was, so she is not apt to be among the forlorn when I take my place in the land where those who are alive cannot enter, but someone, please remind me to just keep myself off these friend’s lists, for I do enjoy good company, but even I get the girl in hankies and the water hose spray!  It is the guy with his boxers on his head and his behind spread in a most non-erotic position which has ruined my morning coffee.  I really am just not cool enough, and do you will see that when I tell you that mooning your Facebook guest should be grounds alone to crank Old Smokie up and let that bird fly away.

Blessings through out your Easter season.

Barb Hz

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