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

“Pinkhoneysuckle,” Amazon, Kindle, Create Space and Pinkhoneysuckle Blog

The Easter Sunday morning seemed to bring some few hours of peace to our mother, for whereas Christmas broke her heart for the lack of a little present when she was a child and her mother’s dried apples all stacked on a fresh baked cake would fill her with anguish, for Daddy’s family had no such thing, and his mad father saw that his sons never got to embrace a Holy Day, this demented soul who endeavored to ease his pain with alcohol was unmerciful to his boys, and Dad carried the warped anger deeply within, so to deny himself was to deny it for all of us until he awakened in the last 40 years of his life to hope, for there was just enough.

“Enough of what you ask?”  He and Mama could get food on the table, even if it was dated for the school’s to throw out.  Her yeast roll days gave us fine warm years rolls for dinner which the old high school had the women make by hand, and the garden — always the garden produced food for spring and for summer.  Eggs from our hens, and finally we could purchase bought milk and even concentrated fruit juice, so spring began to give the gifts of nature, and my Mama would start worrying about the, “Old Cold Winter,” far to early, just when the garden was in; But at Easter, we had a little bit of a surprise.  She would have hidden three or four marshmallow eggs in our shoes, something her Mama once did — Sweet candy with pretty colors, and we could have her chocolate syrup on our biscuits, and most times the dogwoods and redwoods would be in bloom.  Once or twice the girls made some egg dye, and I always knew where the hard boiled eggs were.  They were in the volunteer daffodils which bloomed year after year at our old house, and we would get to hide them and hunt them more than once, and no matter what anyway will ever say, the eggs of Easter tasted different as we touched theom to salt and ate everyone. then next, the eldest daughter home got to drive us down to Lexie Church where a few might have a new dress or Mr. Ode might have scraped his boots better after barn duty, but everyone just seemed to be a little happier.

I doubt if Mama took even one piece of candy for herself, for even as she grew older, she always took the last of everything, so leaving the breast and drum sticks for us, she would eat off the other bony pieces,  and she would have usually beheaded the chickens she could spare the night before, a brutal murder of a bird, for she chose to wring their heads off, and then it appeared as if the heads were looking back at their bodies bounce over the grass, for it was cold blooded murder.  She always boiled water in the old wash pots, soaked them, and then we plucked all the feathers off.  Next the birds would soak in salt over night, for our Mother wanted no blood on our meat, so I, to this day, will soak the packaged chicken breast in brine if that fits in to the Easter meal, but my children wanted the, “Honey Ham,” so popular in our Midwest cook books, but on the southern family table — You are probably going to have more meats to choose from than at Mardi Gras, so again, Our mother and father were so happy they could afford the fine store bought foods

Yes, I know that we are a country of obese people, and we are passing on diabetes to our kids faster than we can learn to say, “No,” at the candy counter.  We commit cardinal sins with sugar candy brimming over in every basket of chocolate and toys, for according to our learned health officials there is no form of sugar, not honey, nor agave syrup, and God forsaken corn syrup is worse than if we chose these over our vegetables.  I just cannot help but laugh, though I wish that I did not have a love for seet things — But mentioning that sugar in all forms need regulation is finally the ship of fools this woman is going to jump off of.  There is far too much obesity, and I need to crack down on my urge for these sinful treats, but the serotonin built up after a little child sees their Easter candy and have little mouths that look like squirrels is apt to be healing a long time before the sugar gets them.  Just a little sugar candy in our shoes surprised us, for Mama usually did not have the quarter for a bag of candy. 

So, Earthlings, give the kids a break and even your own weary souls, and if you cannot afford a basket, just stick a little candy in a shoe.  Tell the little children how spring renews us, brings the birds home again, and opens up a season when things might just seem a little brighter, or at least it felt that way to us.  Mama and Daddy even kept a cookie jar, not just for the grand kids — But for them as well, and they lived to see 85.  They have been gone for a while now, but if we all look from the darkest places of our lives and find a memory of joy, then place it in the scrap book lying on your heart, and if we ever wind up with sugar police and sugar busters, then show them a basket of dandelions, bitter weeds, and wild onion tops, and placd your week old cheese to the side, and tell them you will see them in church after they empty the basket of all the good stuff you gathered, for somehow we have made it from Biblical times until now with a sweet tooth, so God sent the manna like honey and the Israelites blessed the day, for they were starving.  Children hunger, you and I are starving from the lost ages when a little went so far to making those who had little feel a part of a day we pray will lead us gently in to the heavenly bounty, apt to be southern fried chicken, and chocolate syrup on biscuits, the gifts of a mother who was so afflicted with depression that she could hardly get up at times; Our mother gave us her spiritual gifts, what she loved and remembered.

That day always gave us the strength to know that we could dream like other children, and sweet candy were really little pastels of love.

Blessings My Friends.

Blessed Peace On The Way To The Cross, or wherever this weekend takes you.

Barbara Everett Heintz, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” Amazon, Kindle Ready — A book which will challenge your faith if you desire to read of The Southern Dyaspora and a woman from child to adult hood always seeking some peace in the brutal Appalachian Mountains and Valley — Awards San Francisco and Hollywood, California

I am so exhausted at this hour that I long to sleep, but tomorrow is our neighborhood book show, and Noe Valley is actually highest hills, hidden gardens, shopping areas and progressive people all swarming on Sunday mornings.  It is already early morning, and I shall sleep before dawn.  I am packed and ready for our book show and sale tomorrow 42 of us just in this area.  “Pinkhoneysuckle,” will stand out, for I have the awards to show, but somehow this day is not about money, though I will sell copies of my book, give out prizes, and I hope that people will pass the news on that I am a writer who can keep people up all night, for they want to know the next chapter, the next twist and turn, the laughter, the darkness — so dark that I cannot always revisit it, but I will tell you the truth.  You can publish all the books you want, but it is an embarrassing small number which has success with Amazon and their publishing arm of Create Space.

There are too many good writers, and everyone has a story in them, and I will have award plaques to show people — I’m among the noticed ones.  I have told a story which will tear your guts out, and most of it is true.  It is not your Dolly Parton, “We may have been poor, but we had love,” and it is now, “Just the cutest of southern tales; No it is life as it happened in southern Appalachia, and I am one who suffered in thousands.  My dear brother, Robert Van Everett began the book with a prologue, and to let you know right away that this story seems like it should have been live a century ago, but it was our lives, every piece of dirt, every whipping, low down tragic part of it, but we are not humorless.  We told it like it was — And ears burn from our telling of The Southern Appalachian Diaspora, and only now has anyone had the gall to tell the actual cost.  Brother and I told it, and we are not ashamed.

I blessed a man whose name is Richard for putting this together, another kind man who is going to help us out because we do not have the fancy phone with the square. I blessed them, but Richard said he needs blessings, so tomorrow, I am going to take his hands, and He will feel warmth from them for I have something unique that leaves me with hands warm like my Mama’s were, but I want him to feel a blessing through me.  I will give him a prayer in a moment which he cannot hear, but I will pray, and he will know something has come over him, for you see; Some of us who have known angels call them down and bless.  It is not us, but it is God, the Holy Trinity from whom all things come from when the blessing actually comes.  I will walk him to unseen waters, to the whisper of the river, the trail down to the water, but for me it is a vision, and it will help him to rest and hear the real angel speak and to know that he has had a moment by the water, and the power is his to choose to keep.

Some people think I am a Holy Woman, and I may have some gift that I can pass on, but it is not money nor is it fame.  It is a moment to feel loved, free, hearing, “I bless you my friend,” and I will not say a word that anyone has ever seen me in this way.  For we who have any such power must believe in something much larger than us, and in our humility — Sometimes Grace, the gift of the Holy Spirit must be present, for we see no specialness that is ours to keep, and I have had my hands go ice cold — When I am ill, or if I am not believing that God can work through any one of us and does.

But I will bless this man, and he will feel my hands long after we have parted. How do I know this of myself?  Some is in the book, so less hear the nay sayers; “Sure, and she wants to sell a book,” and I will advise you that I am not offended, but it began in childhood in different ways, and then when I went in to nursing, my hands became important to the patients.  The first experience in nursing which I recalled was a young girl with rheumatoid arthritis, and they told me she was difficult as a patient, but I could tell that she was in pain, and she wanted me to massage her hands and feet, and instead of being difficult she told me that my hands were wonderful, that I eased her pain, and she would want me all nights that I was on.  I began to pray to help others in the same way, and it would happen over and over again through all of the years, and I would console the elderly including my Priest mother in the same way.

Pray for me that God may work through me tomorrow, and that I may offer to this man the blessing he desires, and may it continue in his life so he may pass on blessings to others.    Just pray for these hands, and may you find a gift within yourself, the living water gift which comforts all souls.  I pray thus for you.

Barbara Everett Heintz, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” Amazon, Kindle, Create Space for my book, and Pinkhoneysuckle, the blog.

When I see Hillary Clinton now, I see a most amazingly tired woman, and I like to remember her back when she was helping get her husband in to the White House.  I have no idea how many stories were true involving Our former president in-so-far as women were concerned, but I think of that election and that time in history as when something changed in America, and I am so sorry to say that I very earnestly believe that it was a group whom I though might have had a little more decency, for if we have a party which represents the founding fathers message of a country founded by people seeking to live Puritan life and values, then somehow, the average man on the street is apt to say that, “If we want a more moral and religion friendly party, it is probably to be found in the Republican Party, but that year — A wealthy and arrogant group of Republicans had the ear of trash talk radio, and a denizen of morality, as I hold my nose, Mr. Rush Limbaugh.  We no longer had Ronald Reagan’s, “Shining City On The Hill Group,”  we were beginning the era of what has become politics with no morals on either side, and we are dangerously beginning to resemble other countries where there are never real elections, but it is what money can purchase.  The Republican party was going to win at any cost, or so it seemed back then, and for the first time — More than ever, worse than any talk show could have predicted — The era of looking between the sheets was ushered in,  and from Paula Jones to names I cannot remember, we were being regaled with the news of the candidate for the Democratic Party’s candidates encounters with ladies in his bed, and our teenage children were exposed to it, and America took a turn from, “The Redwood Forest, and The Clear Stream Waters,” to, “The Land Of Pig Swill and Sewer Encounters.”

I have wound up admiring politicians over the course of my life, for I am filled with the idea that to do public service does not mean you just want to be powerful; No, it means you want to do public service.  We kicked out one poor candidate, because he had had a period of depression, and candidates were dismissed depending on whether they had spoken as war hawks, for after Vietnam, we just could not abide another war on foreign soil where we accomplished nothing but killing thousands and thousands of their people and their having killed thousands and thousands, at least 125,000 service men and women in Vietnam, and the coffins flowed in like shipments of carefully dug Palm trees to be lain to rest somewhere, and meanwhile, we did not throw our boys any kind of parade, and finally built them a wall where they can go and weep and touch the names of buddies who did not make it back, so this was a bitter group who came home, and we made them that way, for they deserved better than our fresh, no it all, little college opinions.  We see it in retrospect, but this period showed a rawness in us which just should not have been.  The Clintons, I am certain, were against the war in the end, so President Nixon to his credit brought them home.  So it occurs to me that a President who did well in foreign policy would be the president to be impeached and to be so marred in misdeeds that he would have to resign from office; Those had been dark hours for this country, and the young Clintons were finishing college, getting married, doing those things our generation did, but they were a smart couple, and the young man who stood on the steps admiring President Kennedy, our new hope and new generation heading for the moon;  I do not doubt that by the time the Clintons got their last report cards, got married and had their baby that they were thinking, “How far can we go in this world of politics?”

Somewhere though, around the end of the Reagan era, something filthy happened in the woodshed, because if any one thought we were electing choir boys to the Presidency before, and we did elect people in whom I felt certain as a child, always had clean teeth, fresh breath, and never went to the toilet — And God help us if they had a bout of flatulence, for coughing or sneezing was bad enough in public, but from the time of my memory and respect for our office of President, until the 1980s, I believed that we were above the fray of ever allowing bed room talk in to the campaign for the highest office in our land.  Every one knew about FDR and his lady friend, but we only spoke well of the Roosevelts, for this was a couple who saw Americans through  what could have easily been the end of civilization as we had known it, for America was stretched thinly  fighting on both the Atlantic and the Pacific fronts, but families, like my father and mother believed that President Roosevelt got us out of the Depression, provided jobs for men who know longer had given up on life.  We have among our greatest feats of building and the accomplishments of what American Labor could do for The Roosevelt era would ask for labor to build our monuments which stand to this day from East to West, The train stations, dams for water to provide for building homes in the dessert, establishing national parks for everyone’s enjoyment, and the list would take so much more than this page, but public works put food in family’s mouths, but also changed the nature of who we were.  Have you ever seen the faces of the men in bread lines?  Just like the Oklahomans, and what would come to the Appalachians later, there is a haunting and vacant spirit which shows in their faces, with eyes down cast, overalls ripped, shoes coming off at the soles, but a president who had a lover that was usually at The Little White House down near his beloved Hot Springs, a somewhat barren place in Georgia and his lady friend lived a passionate life far away from the masses, and in Mrs. Roosevelt’s day, especially among the upper classes — A mistress was just that, and as some elder women once shared with me, “We did not speak of these things.”  The unspeakable was more than often, “You know what,” but let us presume for conversation that Mrs. Clinton had on more than one occasion had little birds tell her that her man was doing that unspeakable thing.  She related to Eleanor Roosevelt for more than one reason, but she had ambition as well, but she, unlike the Roosevelts, never had any cover to hide under.

She said she did not, but she did, “Stand By Her Man,” that well known country song to all of us who grew up in the south.  Country music is our common language, so when she mentioned this song, I think she got William Jefferson Clinton some votes right there for even knowing the words by the song from, Tammy Wynette.  She was able to charm us, for she had a certain prettiness about her, not beautiful, but pretty, and a woman of our time.  A lot of us found ourselves listening to what she had to say, and many of us grieved with her that national health care wound up being the one thing she was absolutely powerless to get through at the time.  I wanted her to accomplish this, and it was the indecent political pact money which kept It from happening.  Those of us who have experience national health care in countries in Europe or just over the border in Canada know that it works, and we also know that America fell for a lie == For specialist exist in all of these countries, and most people are thrilled that their tax dollars take care of what they need in physician and hospital care from the cradle to the grave.  Mrs. Clinton lost this battle, for the Clintons were the most maligned, demoralized by filthy back room deals to get rid of them, and this brilliant woman wanted to leave America better than they found it.  National health care works, and if you have the dollars and you want more private care; FGS; do you think the people in Europe are stupid, The Swiss?  The British?  The Canadians?  Dirty politics was the one and only reason that national health care could not be a reality, for when it finally happens in this country; No one will understand how God let us be so stupid as to see that it never happened to us before hand.  Three institutions bleed America to death to keep out such a compassionate kind of care — Physicians who feel overwhelming greed, thus the AMA, the Insurance companies, for they are profit making giants, Pharmaceutical companies, and let us throw in The American Hospital Association, though I am reluctant, for some hospital surely serve the poor as well as the rich and those who would have loved National Health Care would be the ones who still have association with religious orders and endeavor to be non profit, so it is difficult to lump Hospital as a whole in with the other power houses.  Hilary Rodham Clinton’s main program was botched before she was the first lady for one year.

She, no doubt, helped President Clinton during both terms, and her greatest help was that she did not absolutely just say, “I am out and to tell all after Monica Lewinsky,” for any other woman on the face of the earth that had to go through knowing all that she would, because it was going to be made our business, drug through the horse farm manure pit, and worked like elephant dung in the garden, because we had taken the bait of showing that we wanted dirt, plain dirt, and we filled our vessels with it night and day that our President had let a little intern flip her thong, and she was 22, and “Oh my God,” she was not going to tell a soul other than her 17other girlfriends, and not only was she a Californian, but that she was a little Jewish girl besides, and that was going to make it worse for this Bible toting husband and Dad, Mr President Bill Clinton.  A lot of voters believe that Mrs. Clinton made a deal at that point with her husband whose brain needed a good washing with some soap that would clean up just plain stupidity and dumb from his frontal lobe, to help him once more, but this time she got something out of it — A run for the presidency herself, and I too, have come to such a conclusion.

I do not want Mrs. Clinton to run.  What is she going to do?  In this country beauty and a brain can get you the chairmanship of Facebook, but an older face with a brain is going to  give the cartoon drawers the time of their lives, so can she go to the plastic surgeons and start looking like a new Hillary, loose two dress sizes, and start doing push-ups, maybe even a breast and butt lift; now that is thinking.  A woman growing older in this country might make the Senate once more, but she will not be elected President.  We do not elect Golda Mair’s in America, for we are not a matriarchal society.

Mrs. Clinton has been Secretary of State, but as long as any soldiers remain in the middle east, they can declare the war over, but more Americans are apt to perish, and we ask again; One trillion dollars to kill and mame how many of our children?  Many of us who believe that Mr. Obama has been grossly subjected to The No Morals Stooges believed he would have brought those kids home long ago, and for their mothers and their fathers — We learned from Vietnam that we respect the soldiers no matter our lambasting of the system which placed them there. 

Every Secretary of State at one time or the other will broker a truce with Israel, for Israel has full American support and has to be reminded about every four years or more that we are no longer fighting Old Testament battles, and please stop firing on your neighbors who are still in grief that a homeland was given over in 1947, and we cannot take that bitterness away from the Palestinians, for the memory is long when one comes in and moves an entire population.  If we are going to support Israel; Perhaps we should have a goal of endeavoring to give to end the poverty of the Palestinian People, and maybe we can even say that Israel deserved a homeland after the Holocaust the most aggressive, anti-human period of any people on the face of the earth, but again,  Is there something we can do to apologize to the Palestinian people it was their homes.  What can we possibly do to bind brotherhood to both Israel as a homeland for the Jewish people, but what can we do for this small Arab nation to declare they have an unresolvable grievance; So this is our time to share sorrow with you, to build your communities, and to endeavor to make peace with Muslim people who are not the problem.  Every nation has extremist, but Muslim people send chills down our spines, and most Christians do not even know that Jesus was seen as a great prophet by the Muslims and that Mary is held in high esteem.  Right now, perhaps we can only pray for healing, but someday we need to help with some understanding behind it.  Mrs. Clinton has done a better job than most at making it know to Israel that it cannot be seeking parody in murder that such only leads to blood shed, and we are awaiting a time of peace.

Mrs. Clinton does not deserve to be torn down more, and she has so many other places to go to save the world, for I believe this is a good woman, but we now live in a land of political pacts, and it may be a big game to the people who run the elections, but we American citizens have had it with Washington as usual, and we are looking for a torch bearer, and no one in Washington is it, for everyone there has been a part of keeping government from happening, and guess what?  Even we grandmothers want everyone of you to hit the road.  No Congress, and No Senate of the 20th and the 21st century could have done worse than the ones we have been subjected to over about a quarter of a century, and the women of America would like for you all to be out looking for jobs.  We understand that there is a lot of space where Madeoff and his pathetic excuses for human beings gathered.  But Mrs. Clinton, you have done enough, and you are too good for this Washington of bought votes.  Give us anyone other than the same old Republicans or Democrats, and let the actors stay in Hollywood.

Hopefully, Chelsea will have you some babies, and you can enjoy being a grandmother, but step back, write your stories, and let us somehow look toward becoming a nation who is not governed by people who must spend four years taking dollars which could pay for a nation wide health care system to stahl every idea and vote which a decent President we elected has had to put up with the likes of the people in Washington now.  Toil no more, and by the way Mrs. Clinton, I think your eyes are beautiful.  Grow old in peace and the joy knowing that we, many of us, realize that the journey you have taken has left pain in your heart far too often.  Enjoy that you made a difference.

Barbara Everett Heintz, Author of, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” Story of A Child To Woman Through The Southern Appalachian Diaspora — Amazon, Kindle Create Space

I cannot thank the people of the world enough who are coming to my website.  I just had the joy of sending my book to a new friend in The People’s Republic of China, so, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” my book crosses The Great Wall Of China before I get to.  My name is Barbara Everett Heintz on Amazon, and I do appreciate that my weblog has developed a following.  Writing my book was one of the periods of history in a time and place which I do not believe many people were familiar with unless they were living it, and I am not certain that other nations know about our Rust Belt which is a terrible name of the northern mid-Atlantic states, and some, like Illinois and Missouri begin our Great Plains, that we call everything, “Great,” has much to do with the vast amount of land involved.  This country from East to West is so incredibly versatile that, just as in Europe, we will never get to visit all of the exquisite art and monuments, one would have to spend a year or two to see the diversity of topography of our land.  One can find arid areas in Texas because it is so very large, but East of the Rockies is not desert land, for the Rockies so influence weather patterns, and until I lived in California, I did not understand about upland desserts such  as the desert of Oregon and I believe it extends in to Washington State.  Above the Plains Wyoming amazed me how many millions of miles are desert land, and in Wyoming and Montana our wild horses can still roam freely where there is grassland and water, but those of us East of the Rockies get the summer rain, the flowers which can survive shorter growing seasons of the eastern coast states, and all of the cities where the building of America began, not to mention the rugged Atlantic coast and the Great Lakes. 

I would love for visitors to America to know about Wisconsin which may be compared to Switzerland, but I have been to both areas, and Wisconsin is Lake filled from small to large, and when we are in sweltering heat in Ohio and Illinois, Wisconsin is cooler once you are in the heart of it, and the green is more emerald, but one would need to know winter sport to fully enjoy the long winters.  Cincinnati, Ohio, our city with the Cincinnati Symphony Orchestra and Cincinnati has always prospered because of the great diversity of factories and world wide business like, Proctor and Gamble, and is considered mid-west in relation to the Continental Divide and how our country developed.  I think Cincinnati and Northern Kentucky are among our most gracious areas to receive visitors once people begin touring mid America, for the glaciers carved out the rivers, and you will find a quaint old city built on 7 hills, very different from the 7 hills of San Francisco, for the grand old housing remains all over the city from early century and a student of architecture would find ever kind of architecture from Queen Ann To Victorian, for we value our exquisite buildings.

I will give my visitors a travelogue now and again, but I must say something for my home state of Tennessee.  It is mountains and ends along with Northern Alabama the Appalachian Trail, so some hills are really the foot hills of how the mountains were heaved up from the earth, and in Kentucky and Tennessee our English language prevails, but people are going to speak more slowly, usually a little more softly, and world visitors will again see the changed topography.  Traveling from the country music recording capital of America from gracious Nashville, and staying on the expressway East toward Chattanooga, you will see rolling hills which look like Vermont, wonderful small towns along the way, many great mansions hidden on hills and the famous Tennessee Walking Horses which are shown where I first went to college at Middle Tennessee State University in Murfreesboro, Tennessee, and there are the gracious old Southern Mansions with the winding porches, the beautiful fretwork décor, all from another time, and it is gracious and wonderful to sit out under the cool old oaks and maples, to sip sweet tea and to just dream of how wonderfully exciting a steamy southern night can be.  I loved to walk the streets at night with boyfriends, and I was a very cheap date, because Mama and Daddy had always taught us not to ask for things, so I was never going to admit to be hungry enough for dinner, and maybe I might have strawberry ice cream, for it was so beautiful just to look at and once the strawberries were ripe and so very sweet, so the taste made one feel loved, even if you had decided such companionship was not the person for you.

Please lands of the European union feel free to visit this website, South America, Asia, Australia, even our South Pacific Islanders along with Canadian friends, and now and then I will take you on some small tours for we have only touched some of what America is about.  Of course I am honored if you look on Amazon, Kindle, or Create Space for my book, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” but if you just want to ask me about other areas of our country, I will take you in writing where I have been  Stop a while, and read a little, and practice some English if you are up to it, but I decided that since I have thousands checking in, then I could write something for you and to write about my country is something which I love to do.  Feel free to ask me about places you are interested in, and what I know about I shall share.  We haven’t spoken of Graceland, and what I have to share about that will surprise you, and to mention Las Vegas; There is no other place like it on earth, so I hope this is your reward for checking out my website — For this is one way of becoming what we wish to become, A Peaceful Planet where there are no wars and we have pooled our resources to end hunger and to provide for human decency.

I end this blog by stating that I believe we Catholics have had a wonderful Pope called who took the name of Francis, for I believe he is going to tackle the hard and painful lessons which the Vatican has endured, but I believe he needs all of us to give him confidence and to clean house at first — A very difficult task.  Next he will probably look at how women can be more useful in the Church, and if ever there was a time to speak for Priest and marriage for the first time since St. Augustine ruled it out, the time is now.  So many of us are convinced that non married priest is an unnatural state, and it was changed once in the church, so it can be brought back in to the church, and almost no American is going to tell you that they do not believe that Pedophiles searched out the Priesthood, so the ability to marry would be a change in tradition which would help cleanse the pastoral call, and I know the argument is made that it would not work, because most abuse occurs among relatives, and I am witness to that happening, but in a church; Are we not all brothers and sisters, so I would end my writing this night with congratulations to South America and with hope that Pope Francis I will consider making that one major concession to Doctrine as well as to allow women Deacons.  He is not there to reform social agendas of gay marriage and to revisit abortions, but he is there to say to baptize those babies who are born even when mothers may need to do some work to come to communion, and I believe soon that he will be bringing mothers back in to the church who were not ministered to after abortion, divorced persons who felt left out of communion.  I believe this man understands forgiveness, but he is not there to re write the Bible, so we Christians have jobs to do.

God Bless This Man Of God From The Americas

Just Let Me Know About What You Wish To Ask About America or American History…Barbara Everett Heintz, Author of “Pinkhoneysuckle,” The Book and Pinkhoneysuckle, The Xanga Blog