Flu

Last evening I had planned on filling in some details of my short three day vacation, but I fell asleep in front of the fan. I tossed a light cotton blanket over me so I wouldn’t get chilled and drifted off. When I woke, I was shivering and my teeth were chattering. The food I’d eaten earlier lay like a log across my stomach. Walking to my closed in back porch, I sat on a cedar chest used to store blankets basking in the warmth. When the shaking stopped, I began the search for the oral thermometer that I knew was still in the house from one of the kid’s illnesses in the past.

I knew that I’d seen it, but unless you can remember where, it doesn’t do much good. After several attempts I found it in tucked in one of the containers for pens and pencils on the desk in my computer room. MY temperature was 101 Fahrenheit, so I knew that I was under-the-weather with some virus or the flu bug.

All evening I napped and drank fluids. I wasn’t surprised to find that my blood sugar was elevated, but that only added insult to injury. The feeling of a log in my gut continued and I was restless. I took my evening medications and my dose of insulin and fell asleep.

I mentioned that I wasn’t feeling well to my kids and of course they were concerned. They periodically texted me to be sure I was still among the living. Late last evening, I had had an episode of nausea and was sure I was going to up-chuck. I managed to slip into bed again, hoping if I wasn’t moving around, the feeling would subside. It did.

Waking this morning, my temperature is down, the log in my gut has been reduced, and the feeling of nausea has moved on. Whatever it was that I had seems to be gone and believe me I’m glad. I haven’t had the flu symptoms in many years and I pray that it’s many more years before I have another bout.

Three Day Vacation No Better Stress Test

My best friend and I have gone on several excursions in the past. When we decide we need a break, we take our vacations together. The outings are rarely longer than one week and many shorter. This mini-vacation lasted three days. Each travel trip has visited waterfalls of some sort. This trip’s beginnings and ending with stopping at a waterfall.

Friday, we motored (I’ve always wanted to use that phrase I’d read in the newspaper and thought it sounded cool) into West Virginia to the Blackwater Falls. The cascade was a medium sized waterfall that was only a short hike from the parking lot. There was a decent trail, fairly easy for this old codger to navigate. My friend usually takes her service dog with her, but because I went along to help, I became the service animal for her.

Tucked in between the waterfall tours were several other events she had planned. One of which was to stop at Seneca Rocks. Approaching the park we could see the tall gray exposed rock pillars that protruded from the tree-filled steep mountain sides. The rocks seemed stark against the bright green foliage of the abrupt forested mountain slopes. Little did I know that we were about to attempt the arduous trail climb to a lookout for a closer look. The trail is a total of 3.7 miles to climb to the top and to return tour vehicle. The trail was rough in many places with a 20 percent or more grade for me to climb. We hiked almost 3/4 of the way before my calves began to cramp forcing us return to the car. Hiking that far and no chest pains, I certainly don’t need a cardiac stress test.

Saturday morning, we made a walking tour of Romney, West Virginia. Because of my sore hips and painful calves our pace was slow but steady. We visited many historical buildings, cemetery, Indian mounds, churches, and Civil War battle sites to visit. Later that morning, we boarded the Potomac Eagle. It was an 8 hour train trip that wound through farmlands, skirted the Potomac River, and passed several pre-Civil War homes. We chose to ride in the Club Car and were served a wonderful meal. I was able to cross that off my bucket list.

Sunday morning we finished the walking tour of Romney, then attended church and Sunday school before our return journey home. Along the way, we visited several historic sites in Maryland and in Pennsylvania. Our last stop was at Cucumber Falls in Ohiopyle, Pennsylvania. It had been many years ago since the last time either of us had visited.

Nun of My Business

One evening when another nurse named Bill and I were working in the emergency department together, three nuns were delivered to us from a nearby automobile accident. The ambulance crew hurried them one after another onto beds to have their injuries evaluated. These nuns were of the old order. They were dressed in the black full-length robes including the coif, wimple and veil. In addition they were wearing chains, ropes, and plenty of undergarments.

Let me say this. Anyone who would make the decision to rape a nun either has no idea of what he is getting into or else has all the time in the world to achieve his goal. I could not believe the amount of clothing these women donned each and every day of their lives; that is until I actually started to undress them so I examine them and get them into hospital issue gowns. It was a full fifteen minute endeavor before I saw any kind of bare flesh at all.

It was just like peeling an onion, layer after layer. Underneath the ankle-length robes were all manner of cloth folds. Every sort of binders, tee shirts, ropes, and safety pins must have added fifteen pounds to their weight. It was a crazy patchwork quilt. After much diligence, they were freed from their habits and tucked safely into one of our gowns for examination by our doctor.

One of the registration clerks found out what we had done and was offended that men were undressing the nuns. There weren’t enough women to evaluate the nuns quickly and it was necessary for Bill and I to do a cursory examination of the nuns.

I told her, “I’m a professional” and I could “undress and examine a woman without seeing anymore than if she was wearing a bathing suit.” When it was necessary for me to help a woman undress, I would loosen and push down to the blouse to the top of her chest, then place the hospital gown over her. I’d finish removing the blouse, brazier, etc. while she was covered with the gown. I’d pull the gown over her, then place a folded blanket or sheet across her middle to examine the rest of her chest, abdomen, and pelvis. Pulling the gown further down, I’d remove the slacks or skirt to examine the legs from the feet to the top of the thighs.

Once my evaluation was complete, I’d turn the examination over to the physician. The woman was covered at all times preserving her dignity. I was just thankful that the nun’s injuries were only minor and that I didn’t have to figure out how to put them back into the habits.

It Doesn’t Take Much

Like the joke of Rodney Dangerfield used to tell, when he would fit his car into a tight parking space, he felt satisfied. It doesn’t take much to make me happy. A good hamburger slathered in mustard, piled high with onions, French fries and a pool of Heinz ketchup, a pepperoni, onion, banana, cheese pizza, or a cooling breeze on a hot day as I mow, all of these can please me.

Monday I babysat for my granddaughter Hannah. It has been several months since we had our last outing. She likes to shop, especially at the dollar stores, and I needed a few things there. A baby’s birth card, some snacks for a short upcoming trip, and a box of chocolate covered peanuts for me. I always get her some kind of a treat when I babysit with her: chips, a candy bar, or cookies. When she asks for a snack, I tease her and say, “Did you say you want a smack?” She’ll correct me and after we go back and forth several times, she gets her snack.

I needed a few groceries and we made our way to County Market. What I wanted was on sale there. It didn’t take long to gather and pay for my selections and load them in the trunk. Dodging the raindrops we meandered down the covered walkway to Peebles. I don’t usually shop there, but I wanted to select a gift for a newborn baby boy at our church.

Christian Garcia is the assistant to our Pastor and Rachel Garcia is his wife. Asher is their newborn son. He has a head full of dark hair and is cute as a button. With my summer head cold, I have been keeping my distance. No use sharing it with anyone that small. I thought I’d shop at Peebles for something that perhaps wasn’t already purchased for the little one. I didn’t want to buy clothing. Babies grow out of them after wearing them only once or twice. If anything, I’m frugal and practical.

With the help of Hannah, we chose a blanket set and several bibs. I tossed in two pairs of tiny socks just for something different. I plan to give it to his parents Wednesday evening during the Wednesday evening prayer service.

P. S. The snack Hannah’s chose was Twizzlers. They were labeled as Dr. Pepper. I’d never seen that flavor before, she wanted them, so Dr. Pepper it was. The candy had a sweet mild taste that was similar to the brand name drink.

Cheapening

Over the many years of my life, I’ve seen new words added to our vocabularies while others have lost popularity or been discontinued. New terminology has been created to cover the increasing complexity of inventions and our changing world. But what I am worried about is the cheapening of the real meanings of words. Too many people casually use words that are being hurled in playground episodes of name calling. When individuals or groups of people can no longer rationally debate their differences or are unwilling to act reasonably toward each other, they begin to use thoughtless phrases or toss offensive words at the other.

Take the word “racist.” It was a term to define someone who asserted differences in character, intelligence, etc. by skin color or ethnicity. It asserts that one person feels superior and prejudges another based on those differences without actually knowing the other person. Too often it has become an epithet to be used when another person doesn’t agree with your view and has nothing to do with one’s view on race or ethnicity.

The same is true of the word “bigot.” When someone can’t be won by reason the other person may resort to calling the opposition a bigot. When a person cannot be swayed or persuaded to a similar view or opinion the opponent is oft times called bigoted.

Using the term “Nazi” seems to be the most recent term used when another disagrees with the ideas being espoused. The term is by all means a despicable term describing the tyrannical political party that foisted one atrocity after another on dissenters and on a specific race. Fascist is another term closely associated with Nazi and is running parallel to it. Hitler was at the helm of this demented political party and his name is another insult randomly hurled when someone refuses to believe the argument or stands against the opposing belief. Hitler and his followers committed the most horrendous attacks on mankind. They herded men, women, and children into box cars, hauling them to concentration camps to be slave labor. They were either worked to death or murdered in massive numbers in gas chambers. At time the dead’s skin was used to make lamp shades. The gold teeth extracted from their mouths and sold. Even their hair was used to stuff furniture. The dead were buried in mass graves and forgotten like trash.

When the people of today casually toss around words like Hitler, Nazi, Fascist, and concentration camps loosely, they cheapen the real meaning of everything that is concentrated in these terms. They lessen the true historical facts and gravity of those words. People need to be able to argue, defend, and debate their points of view without denigrating or cheapening the true meaning of history and those words.

Strange Day

On Wednesday evening while at a prayer meeting in our church, someone mentioned my name for prayer to get an end of my lingering head cold. Initially, I hadn’t thought much about asking for prayer for something as simple as a summer cold. As the disease continued from one week into another, I still thought of it as almost insignificant. When I woke Thursday morning, much of my tiredness had dissipated and the cough had resolved to a minimum disturbance. If God numbers of the hairs on my head numbered, I shouldn’t have been surprised because there is nothing in my life that my heavenly Father isn’t concerned with.

I decided to do my laundry now that I had some energy. It was definitely needed. I was down to my last few pairs of clean underwear. It was wash some or I would have no clean under drawers. It was almost to the point of me choosing to have no gutchies or to wear long johns and in this hot humid weather that was not an option that appealed to me.

After the laundry was washed, I hung the clothes out on my solar and wind powered green clothes lines. While collecting the dried ones my lawn mower repairman stopped by. I’d called him earlier in the week because the belt came loose for the riding mower. With the congestion in my head; I couldn’t for the life of me figure out how to slip the belt back onto the pulleys even after watching instructions on hoe to do it on You Tube.

When he left, I still felt like I had some energy remaining and began to mow my yard. I finished about 2/3 of my yard when it seemed like the belt had again slipped off the pulleys. I figured I had watched the repairman and could now replace the belt to its original position and finish my lawn. Not so fast. As I felt my way under the carriage for the belt, it felt unusually loose. Searching further, the belt had snapped.

Calling the repairman, he couldn’t believe that the belt had broken. Earlier this past spring he’d replaced the old belt with a brand new one. It was too warm for me to pull out my walk behind mower last evening. Until he can replace the belt, I may try to finish the lawn tomorrow with the walk behind mower early morning while it’s still cool.

Nighttime Confusion

I rarely remember my dreams or nightmares, but for some strange reason, the stream of unusual faces and happenings has hung on this morning. The trigger could have been meeting some new people at the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society’s annual picnic. The event was held at Aleo Lake, a serene location away from the traffic and bustle of everyday life. The gently rolling lawn, small lake with geese and a lone white swan seemed ideal place to gather. Inside the barn were tables and local memorabilia. The only shortcoming was that the barn had no air conditioning. It was made tolerable by two large fans.

Several long tables were covered with flavorful potluck dishes and the feasting started. I moved from table to table, talking and becoming acquainted with the different people. One of the people that I was already friends with said I looked pale and tired. “My summer cold,” I explained.

Coming home, I was exhausted and soon went to bed. My phone wakened me. A friend had texted me. Nothing important, but it roused me from slumber, 12:51 a.m. The thoughts of riding in a car with friends clung to my brain like spider webs caught in my hair. The car was gray-blue Ford Crown Vic, like an old cop cruiser. Although I wasn’t able to recognize the faces of the driver and passenger, they reminded me of a couple of friends who are deceased. The dream returned as I fell back to sleep.

He stopped the car and pointed to a place in a small stream where fish swam. Dull hued rocks and brightly colored chachkies intermingled to line the bottom of the freshet. After a short while we pulled back onto the highway. It had become a multiple lane roadway. Instead of driving on it, he shot across the four lanes to drive on a craggy goat trail. In the back seat, I couldn’t see any trail at all, but we sped along the invisible path, knocking loose pieces of the mountainside to tumble into the valley far below. Somewhere along the line, we’d picked up four passengers, no one that I knew, but they’d all crowded into the front seat. Two other passengers I didn’t recognize were in the back seat with me. All of a sudden, the driver stopped the car and got out. The vehicle was perched on the side of the cliff… and I woke to answer natures call. I don’t guess I will ever finish the dream. Now, that’s what I call a real cliff hanger.

Go Baby Go

Even though I have been battling a summer head cold, I still had commitments. This past Wednesday I was able to work 3 out of a 4 hour shift at the Chestnut Ridge Historical Society. It was necessary to put the finishing touches to the newsletter and to get it to the printer. This past Friday was one full week struggling with the cough and congestion. My neighbor’s lawn and mine were looking scraggly. I cut parts of the lawns in shifts, so I didn’t wear myself out.

Saturday morning it was my turn to be docent at the Historical Society, to man the phones and to keep the lights on should there be any visitors. It’s not a demanding job, but necessary to be open and available during the promised hours of operation. While I was there, I stored the memorial plates from local churches and schools from one display case and replaced them with a collection of vintage ladies’ hats.

Saturday evening was the launch of the Loyalhanna Review. It is a yearly event to promote their magazine of photography and literary offerings of local artists. Full color photos and writings filled the many pages.

Sunday morning was church. I wasn’t feeling well enough to sing in the choir, but managed to stay awake during the service even though I had taken some cold medicines with my usual medications before going.

I didn’t stay for Sunday school. At 1:00 p.m. was the 99th Rugg Reunion. It is a yearly event that keeps alive memories of past generations and keeps family ties going. It was a chance to be reacquainted with older cousins and to meet new generations being added. Reunions are notoriously difficult to fund. “Passing the hat” for donations was an attempt to cover costs seemed to fail miserably, we began to use a “white elephant” sale to provide money. Each year, due to the wonderful gifts donated and an occasional bidding war, the funds seem to expand. Each item is wrapped beautifully. An attached, titillating note hint of the contents and the bidding begins. Several unique and expensive items weren’t wrapped, but offered for all to see the quality. A cutting board with a 99th Rugg reunion wood design, a framed counted cross stitch, a small maple chest with the Rugg name on the side, and a flash drive with photos and the family history dating back to the 1200’s were some of the items.

Even though I was tired, I went to Sunday evening services and choir practice. I felt I needed both.

Birth

In all of my seventy years of life I cannot remember ever having witnessed an actual birth. This may sound unusual to those who know me, because I am a nurse. In training, my obstetrical rotation was limited. I am a male, tall, and burly. Other than a husband, I wasn’t the type of person that many women wanted to share that special and miraculous moment. Most of my caring was pre-delivery or post-partum. I also ran as an EMT with a local ambulance crew for several years. I was raised in the country, not on a farm. We had pets and other animals, but none were pregnant and delivered while I was around.

I wasn’t able to view the birth of my own children. With my wife Cindy, our first child, Amanda, I wasn’t allowed.  She worked days and I worked nightshift. We couldn’t attend childbirth classes. That was a must back then. The day before Amanda’s birth, we visited the doctor. Cindy came out of the office crying and depressed. “He told me it could be another two weeks.” We drove home in silence.

That evening she started with mild contractions, but with the doctor’s prediction and my work schedule, I left her in the capable hands of her father, “Bud” Morrison. No sooner had I arrived at Frick Hospital where I worked and gotten deep into the care of the clients of our 40 bed unit, when I got a call from the obstetrics unit saying Cindy was there and in labor. Every spare moment, I would leave the floor to visit. I finished my shift at 7 a.m. and continued my vigil until early evening when Amanda was born. I couldn’t be there for the birth because of those absent childbirth classes.

With our second child Andrew I was with Cindy most of the doctor’s visits and during her labor, but was chased from the room. With no childbirth classes again, I was not being able to witness his birth.

Things really got crazy with the birth of our third child, Anna. Cindy developed pre-eclampsia. A condition will usually happen with a first child, if it happens at all. For some reason, toxins and fluids accumulate causing the mother’s blood pressure to rise to dangerous levels. The treatment was bed rest. Bed rest was nearly impossible having two children under the age of five and my work schedule. But with the help of both of our mothers, we managed. It still wasn’t working. Cindy was hospitalized for more stringent bed rest and the decision was made to do a Caesarean section. I was again barred from the operating room, and not able to witness Anna’s birth.

Summertime and the Sneezin’s Easy

I was “lucky” enough to catch my first summer cold in several years. I’d nearly forgotten how annoyingly irksome the symptoms are. My first hint of the disease started on Friday with a tickle in my throat and sneezing. I shrugged it off as intensifying symptoms of my allergies. I thought allergies were inevitable because I was doing more outdoor work and mowing. Alas, that was not to be. The tickle in my throat progressed into intermittent bouts of coughing. Soon, my nose began to run and the congestion moved into my chest. What joy! The collection of mucus caused me to hack and cough to clear my throat and airway. With my nose partially blocked, I sometimes took a breath through my mouth. The open-mouthed breathing dried my airway and increased the tickle, sparking more coughing setting of fires in my chest.

I know there are multiple symptom relieving medications, but with my history of hypertension, I must use them carefully and judiciously or risk a stroke. So instead, I sneeze and wheeze like an old puffer-Billy freight train sitting at the station.

The title of today’s post is a perversion from a song in the American opera, “Porgie and Bess.”As a young kid, I watched the entire presentation on television and remembered it lovingly. The music was hauntingly captivating, especially “Summertime.” For several years I pestered my kids to get a copy for me as a birthday gift or Christmas present. Finally my wish came true and my beautiful memory dulled. I put the DVD into the player and the music swelled. It was still grand, but the theme of the opera was dark, so very dark. As a child I must have missed the story line enamored by the music and the voices of the singing. In my adult life, the music continued to flow through my brain at times, but the scenes of the opera had been lost or not recalled. My recollection was faulty and that beautiful memory has now been shattered. It does make a person wary of what they wish for.

Leftovers

I guess that I am cooking like I still had a family at home. I haven’t been able to cut down the recipes of “toss into a pot until it tastes good.” I will start out with something simple and decide it needs noodles or rice. Or I might toss in some carrots, onions, celery or potatoes as my desire to create expands. Crock pot cooking is my choice of weapon, although I can wield a frying pan with dexterity and ease.

When my family was at home, I worked 3-11 shift and my wife Cindy taught school and my kids were in school during the day. I would make my own lunch and they would be forced to eat leftovers for supper. Many times I would empty out the vegetable drawer in the refrigerator, toss in some kind of meat, even if it was lunch meat. Adding oriental seasonings and soy sauce, I’d stir fry it, then serve it over rice. I told my kids that the dish was called Daddy’s revenge. My one daughter Anna would request it on occasion while my son Andrew said, “Dad, don’t make it any more.”

Cindy’s favorite soup was potato soup. I would occasionally make some for her. I liked a smoky flavor and would toss in ham hocks, a piece of ham, or even some bacon. I decided to make it. One day after dumping the ingredients into a pot, I couldn’t find any smoked meat. I searched the freezer and refrigerator…nothing. As I mentioned before the lunch meat drawer wasn’t out of bounds for my culinary talent and did a last ditch search inside. Aha, there were 5 pieces of hard salami waiting for me to claim them. I Julienned them and added them to the already bubbling mélange. Voila…Cindy said it was the best potato soup she tasted. The spices in the salami were great flavoring.

I also like to cook things that are easy or that I can use only one pot. No one else is going to do the dishes for me. A cookie recipe I like to use when I force myself to bake yields two kinds of cookies. I mix the batter for a double batch of tollhouse cookies, but only use chocolate bits and walnuts in one half. In the other half I use butterscotch bits and pecans, two completely different flavors. If I choose not to scoop the dough to make individual cookies, I will spread the batter into baking pans to make bars.

It’s nothing that Julia Childs or Bobby Flay would be proud of, but they don’t have to eat it if they don’t want to.

 

Shortcuts or Being Shortchanged

So much has changed in my seventy years of life. Responsibility for our actions, pride in our flag and country, prayer in school, claiming the Bible’s truth as absolute, believing that the Constitution of the United States guarantees our rights: freedom of speech, freedom of religion, freedom to bear arms. They were immutable and that Americans had inalienable, God-given rights. All of this seems to be whittled away by politicians who only want power at the expense of “We the People.”

The founding of the United States was taught as history. The problems we had in gaining our independence from Great Britain have all but been eliminated. Americans have shortened that war for independence to the Fourth of July, often burying the importance of that struggle. We celebrate it because our ancestors gave their lives to be free.

We’ve lessened the meaning of Easter to a bunch of eggs, chocolate bunnies, and jelly beans. We’ve lost the reason that Christians celebrate the holiday. It’s because of the resurrection of Christ and his triumph over the grave.

Christmas is another holiday we celebrate to recognize the birth of the Messiah; the redeemer that Israel and the Jewish Nation had been promised. Today, Christ is being replaced with an old fat man in a red suit who judges good and bad. We’ve mutilated the day by calling it X-mas, happy holiday greetings, sparkle season, light up night, or a myriad number of meaningless replacement words. Why should Atheists be given a day off from work. They don’t believe in the virgin birth of Christ the Messiah? Shouldn’t they be required to work?

Leftist Socialistic politicians are attempting to remove the very foundation upon which our nation was founded. Their main objective is to destroy the Constitution and not teach its tenets and to alter history. Each new law or proposal is an attempt to weaken or remove rights for freedom of speech, freedom of religion, and freedom to bear arms. They also feel it necessary to destroy our God-given and inalienable rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

They twist the phrase of “all men are created equal” into a warped outcome of all men will be equal at the end of the race by taxing all into poverty. In the past Pilgrim groups tried a communal system that failed utterly. Eventually, each family was assigned a plot of land for their own consumption. They found that following II Thessalonians 3:10-12 worked much better. “For even when we were with you, this we commanded you, that if any would not work, neither should he eat. For we hear that there are some which walk among you disorderly, working not at all, but are busybodies.  Now them that are such we command and exhort by our Lord Jesus Christ, that with quietness they work, and eat their own bread.” Happy Independence Day.

Catnaps and Footsteps in the Night

When my baby daughter Anna got married I became the “proud” owner of a long-haired white cat with black markings. This feline was predestined for the movie, “It’s a Wonderful Life,” not necessarily for me. This cat was born with one side of her body (that’s steadily growing wider) an elongated letter “W.” When my daughter saw this stray, she decided to keep it, determined that the cat should have a home and a name that commenced with the letter “W.” She started to brainstorm, working her way through the normal “W” names. As she proposed the various names, nothing seemed to fit. It was then that my warped sense of humor took over and I suggested Willow. I didn’t share how I came to that name, but she liked it and the cat was dubbed Willow. Later I explained that the cat was actually Pussy Willow. Anna kind of wrinkled her nose at the thought, but the cat’s name remains Willow.

The problem with owning a long-haired cat is that she sheds. Brushing her seems to just loosen more hair. Vacuuming clumps of hair eliminates the fur balls on the carpet, but for only an hour or two. The second problem is the puked up hairballs. Moving through the house barefooted in the dark without flipping on a light can be rather treacherous. Unexpectedly a squishing sensation can cause me to go into an episode of hopping on one foot and a dash for a paper towel. A third problem is that Willow is a long-haired cat of two colors. If I wear light slacks, the black hairs show prominently, but if I wear dark slacks, I gather the white hairs. A de-linter roller has to be used each time I leave the house.

Willow is a good mouser. The only problem is she plays with the mouse without killing it. Her collar bell rings wildly as she bats and chases the “toy” from area to the next. I take her toy away by using a shoe to stun the mouse. Willow sadly looks up at me as I flush her plaything away.

Willow’s day consists of eating, using the kitty litter, and sleeping, Interspacing these activities, she comes to my feet, begging for a snack. Little does she know is that I buy a different brand of cat food and give her a few of those pellets. Wet cat food? She may eat a bite or two then refuse to eat anymore and I waste an entire can. After sleeping most of day, I often hear her racing through the house at full speed and I wake, wondering how an elephant got into my house.

Education or Indoctrination

One thing I’ve noticed as I’ve aged is there has been a massive change in America’s education system. Some of it has been for the better, but much of it is cause for concern. Reading, writing, mathematics, and the Bible were the foundation of the Colonial settlers and remained the same for many generations. The books from which the children learned were passed down almost as heirlooms of the family. The printing of new books was expensive.

Slowly paper production expanded, and the printing took less effort and cost. Newspapers and almanacs began to circulate. Even they were prized possessions to be passed along and read from cover to cover. If a newspaper was left behind by a traveler, the entire village read it before it became so worn and tattered that it was no longer practical to read.

In the past, students were taught Latin and Greek. The classic languages were important so they might be able to read from Bibles and from the many classic works of literature. But something has changed. Children today aren’t less bright than our forefathers and they have more time available to study as chores and work at home has lessened. Is it that we expect less from them? I do know that as public education has been removed from the control of local school boards, the Federal Government has imposed standards education that has changed what is being taught, no longer reflecting the community. The introduction of government approved curricula and the watering down of history, geography, art, and shop skills have created a void. There’s been a loss of understanding, a loss of morals, and a lack of respect for our country, life in general, and religion.

Tolerance can be a good thing, but when open-mindedness is advanced to the point of flat-headedness, everything becomes acceptable. When a school’s ruling body overrides a parent’s desire for their children and the school administrator feels the need force children to participate in a subject that the parent feels is offensive or morally objectionable, that smacks of Marxism. I have a major problem with the government’s control. When does the school’s decision supersede the parents’ rights? I thought things like this happened only in Communist countries where the government used the schools to indoctrinate the youth to a belief in their political system. Is that why the books from which our children learn have to have government approval? Control of our children’s lives is being wrested away from parents to be raised by the government’s national village.