How Soon We Forget - Outrage and Children Separated From Their Parents

    In the Middle Ages it was common for warring nations to use "hostages".  These "hostages" were not hostages in the way that we consider hostages, but rather they were held to keep the peace.  It stands to reason that if your enemy has your child, you will maintain your peace treaty.  The enemy children were called "foster children" and were well cared for.  It was a tactic to ensure peace.
 
    It is only recently that Canadians and the world have come to learn of Canada's dirty little secret, Residential Schools.  The governments throughout the decades (that is so shocking and repugnant to realize it was not just one evil political government, but many) stole native children from their parents.  I say stole, because parents did not willingly give their children to these white strangers.  They were threatened with imprisonment if they did not surrender their children, many children as young as 4 year old.  Consider your child and someone who is strange and imposing comes to take your child.  Imagine how it would feel to be that powerless in regards to your children's welfare, that you are unable to protect them.  Some children were snatched away and their parents had no idea that their children were taken.  I can only imagine the frantic mother searching for her child, fearing the worst, that her child had some accident or an animal had taken them (although the children would have fared better from a wild animal attack).  The government's plan was simple... dehumanize and make it so that they can't fight back.  Although Europeans took this land from it's original inhabitants, they were terrified of retribution.  Consider the game of "cowboys and Indians", the "Indian's" were the bad guys.  The European's in power held all of the power, but were frightened of an "Indian" uprising.

    Consider if a group of ruffians came into your home with machine guns and told you that this was now their house, and since they were nice, they would let you live in the backyard, your backyard.  Over time they took more and more of your yard until you were left to live in a tiny little corner with no food, no water, no shelter the part of the yard that was no good for anything.  They then villainized you.  After they had pushed you as far as they could push you, they began to fear that you would try to take back your home, escalate into violence.  Their plan would be to take your children hostage to ensure your good behaviour.  They took your children and raised them in a shed in the front yard, or in a garage the next town over.  They would not allow you to see your children, because they didn't want to upset them, and it was important for them to lean the Ruffian ways.    Sound familiar?  The Europeans approached this land as their inherent right to take.  The inhabitants were savages which made them less than, they were actually doing these child like savages a favour by taking everything from them and teaching them the grown up ways of the Europeans.

    So many of us approach the situation of our indigenous persons in Canada as a problem.  We look at it in a misguided, ignorant view.  We see the "Indian's" as the problem.  "We give them money and they spend it all on booze.  We give them everything and they destroy it.  They are a drain on our resources".  My favourite is "Indian, Natives, Aboriginals I don't even know what is politically correct to call them, they keep changing what they want to be called!"  The reason that European's called them "Indians" was because when they discovered North America when they were looking for the North West Passage (a faster route to the orient).  They thought that they were in India, thus Indians.  Imagine if you will our imaginary situation, the one where ruffians took over your home. They took over your home and forced you to live in your back yard.  Your names were Betty and Ron Johnson, but the Ruffians had thought they had stolen the house down the road that was owned by the Smiths.  They began calling you "The Smiths".  As the years progressed they began to send your now grown children back into the back yard with you.  These children thought of you as garbage because that's what the Ruffians had taught them.  They worshiped new Gods who were not the one God that you believed in.  They had been raised to think that they were dirty and you were even dirtier.  They had been badly abused physically, mentally and sexually.  They carried these dreadful events with them.  As the Ruffian's children grew, a few of them began to see that this situation was unfair.  They did not give you your house back, or any more of your yard (which they were now using for other purposes), but they felt it was unfair to call you "The Smiths", they knew this was not your name.  Instead of asking what you might like to be called, but recognizing that calling you "The Smiths" was wrong, they began calling you "The Original Home Owners".  Eventually your grandchildren began telling the Ruffians that they wanted to known as "The Johnsons".  Some of the Ruffians felt that this was only right, and some of them were angry because you couldn't make up your mind what you wanted to be called.

    Right now the world is up in arms because of Trump's treatment of illegal immigrant children, as they should be.  It is deplorable that a child be taken from their children because they wanted their children to have a better, safer life.  I encourage you to read the link that I have attached.  It is very in-depth and educational article published by the CBC.

https://www.cbc.ca/news/health/health-damage-for-children-separated-and-detained-us-1.4714168

   To sum it up children's mental health experts are pointing out the unimaginable damage that traumatic removal of children from their parents causes. In the article there is a quote

"Children forcibly taken from their families go through both immediate and l

ong-term health issues, Brindamour said, starting with "extreme" distress and fear. "

This is a quote from Dr. Mahli Brindamour who is  a member of the Caring for Kids New to Canada task force with the Canadian Paediatric Society.  She further goes on to say 

"If that separation lasts for too long, then the damages can be irreparable."

The article written by Nicole Ireland states that these children not only go on to develop mental illness because to this traumatic event, but also it effects their cognitive development, meaning it impairs their ability to learn.  In the long term it puts them at greater risks for developing chronic diseases later in life such as heart disease, diabetes and hypertension.   I hope that you are beginning to connect the dots.  If you are not, please continue onto the link from Ted Talks.

https://www.ted.com/talks/helen_pearson_lessons_from_the_longest_study_on_human_development?utm_campaign=social&utm_medium=referral&utm_source=facebook.com&utm_content=talk&utm_term=social-science

    Right now as we speak there are probably indigenous children contemplating suicide.  Many come from dysfunctional, poverty stricken homes.  These children are the echo of the harm done by a government that felt it acceptable to remove and torture children.  Is it any wonder that people who were forcibly taken from their families, given numbers instead of their names and dehumanized,  who were experimented on by their own government, not allowed to speak the only language they knew, not allowed to speak to their siblings of the opposite sex, tortured by supposed religious people, sexually abused and made to feel like they were less, is it any wonder that this population has drug and alcohol dependancy issues?  Is it any wonder that those who have not had the opportunity to be raised in a loving home, with their own parents, grandparents and communities would have difficulty raising their own children?  Indigenous individuals in Canada are among the highest at risk for diabetes and diabetes complications in our country.  This is a problem that was created by a government who attempted cultural genocide.  This is a problem created by a government who knew about the evils doused upon children, knew that children were dying by the hundreds of thousands but accepted it as a positive outcome because disease and neglect would do the job of killing the savages.  This is a problem hidden from Canadians in plain sight.  

    As a nation, as human beings we should be protecting children, even if they are not our children.  We have a moral obligation to protect those who are weakest.  The situation that these families in the United States are being inflicted with is disturbing and morally devastating.  We must stand up to bullies and tyrants.  Having said this, if we can recognize it as wrong in others, why can we not see our past as wrong?  How can we not draw conclusions between our treatment of Canada's indigenous children in the past and the troubles that many Northern Indigenous communities are experiencing now?

Who are Your People and Where Do You Come From - It's in my DNA

    I grew up with a story teller.  She told us our history.  I would sit at my Nana's knee and breath in her every word.  She held my unyeilding attention, caught on her every word.  

"We are descendants from royalty, and don't ever forget that. 

 We are descended from Robert the Bruce".  

"There was a race to see who would reach the Isle of Skye first.  The first to touch it would claim it.  It was the Mackinnons who reached it first.  The chieftain cut off his hand it threw it onto Skye, 

he was the first to touch it, and it became theirs."  

    I am not doing these stories justice, time has dulled the actual stories, but not the love I felt for my Nana, and not the emotion behind the stories.  Who I am is largely because of my Nana.  She was so proud.  To hear Nana tell it I had only Scottish in my veins, and a small pinch of Irish from her father.

To be Scottish, was to be proud of who you were.  We are a strong people.  I believed every word as gospel. 

    On the week-ends and holidays I heard different stories sporadically from my father who worked long hours.  My great-great-great- grandfather was a blacksmith, the first in Upper Canada.  He set up shop in what is now Harrowsmith and it was named for his trade.  Dad would tell us stories of his family.  His family history is as Canadian as it gets.  No one could remember a time that we did not live in Canada.  The only heritage that he could think of were Welsh.  We were Canadian, we built this land.  

   

    I think that my family lore was what drew me to history and my love of it.  I want to know more, to know why.  Everything that I knew was family lore.  Stories over time become more fantastic, less fact based, still entertaining.  They became the fabric of who I was.

     Fast forward in time.  The program "Who Do You Think You Are" grabbed my attention.  For those of you not in the know, it's a program where celebrities with the help of experts trace their genealogy and learn their family history and fascinating stories.  I would love to be on the show, oh ya I'm not famous.  Then they began advertising for Ancestry DNA kits.  Too much money, put it on the back burner.

    In all of my family history at no point did anyone ever mention the vikings.  At least half of the members on my mothers side of the family have red hair.  Red hair is known to have been brought to Scotland and Ireland by the vikings.  The summer before last we took a family vacation to Nova Scotia, specifically Cape Breton.  Cape Breton is known for their highland culture.  It was inhabited by Scottish Highlanders and they very much carry on the traditions.  We visited the Gaelic College to emerge ourselves in their culture and in our own culture.

http://gaeliccollege.edu

It was quite fascinating.  We entered the Hall of Clans.  I went over to look at the Mackinnon Clan, and the Hamilton Clan.  When I looked at the Mackinnon Clan there was mention of heavy Viking blood. How interesting...

    One car ride Riley and I were talking about gifts, Mother's Day was quickly approaching.  I said to her in passing "When you become rich, I really want the Ancestry DNA kit for Mother's Day", apparently that pretty little girl listened, because for Mother's Day I received the Ancestry DNA kit.  I was beyond ecstatic!  The Monday after Mother's Day I began to fill that tube with spit, oh and it's every single bit as gross as it sounds.  I felt like it was just a small tube and it would take a single spit, I was wrong.  The bubbles really grossed me out.  Once my stomach settled I skipped to the post office and sent it off.  

    I was expecting Scottish, Irish and Welsh.  I am not terrible exotic.  I received the email last week, telling me my DNA had been processed and the results were posted.  WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.

Turns out I do have Viking blood!  That makes me a little exotic, how exciting.

Father's Day from the Woman too wrapped up in Life to Count Her Blessings

    What am I going to buy Dad for Fathers Day?  I'd like to get him something that he will enjoy, I don't know what to get him.  What about a DVD Box Set?  No he has that one.  What will I make for dinner?  Cabbage rolls should I make cabbage rolls, nah I'm thinking BBQ.  This is the inane brain chatter that rumbles around in my head every June, oh heck substitute the Father's Day dialogue and it's the same inane chatter that rumbles around my head every waking minute.  In that chatter there is no feeling blessed.  There is no "Thank God my father is with me this year to celebrate".  I throw myself into the details, the stupid, worthless details.
     As I sit here writing this I feel a little ashamed.  I feel ashamed that I am so busy being busy, living my insane life that I have forgotten my blessings.  I chastise myself thinking how close I came to being one of those who will celebrate this Father's Day for the first time without their father.  Those who would give anything for just one more day with their father.
    In May of 2017 Dad wasn't feeling well.  I took him to our local hospital, where he was treated like garbage.  I don't feel like it was just my father who was treated this way, our medical system is broken.  It has become more about the business model and less about helping people, but I digress.  Dad was in the hospital emergency room shivering on a gurney in the hall, burning up with fever.  It was almost 24 hours that he stayed in that state of limbo.  Eventually he was seen by a doctor who discovered that dad had blood poisoning.  He was in the hospital for a week.
    Dad's recovery was not speedy, but he is no longer a young man.  He is no longer a young man who also happens to have COPD and congestive heart failure.  I've always felt like my dad was invincible, immortal.  I always knew that in a fight my dad could beat your dad hands down.  I would like to say that this was school yard talk, but up until last May, I was still quite certain that my Dad could beat your Dad.  Dad doesn't complain about anything, he just keeps on.  He's gone to work with broken fingers and had them set that night after work.  He's had bits of metal in his eyes, gone to the hospital and then right back to work.  The Grim Reaper could be holding onto my Dad and he would just stubbornly walk away, pulling the Grim Reaper along like he was water skiing.  My Dad is one tough old bird.
    Mid July Dad was feeling really ill again.  We went back to the hospital, again a ridiculous wait.  It was the blood poisoning again, and it was bad.  The doctor looked at us and said that Dad was only the second person with this type of blood poisoning that he has seen live.  Usually it will kill them within a few days, my Dad pulled the Grim Reaper along, stubbornly refusing to give in.  He went from Belleville, to Kingston, to London, to Kinston.  They suspected that his pace maker had caused the infection.  He was in hospital for a month.  That was a month of running back and forth every single day, and doing it gladly.  In that month I felt so blessed to still have my father.  What happened from then until now?  How did I loose that feeling?  Life returned to normal.  Dad no longer was the centre of my universe.
    I had done my usual Father's Day thing, make the meal, give the presents, make the small talk.  Mom and Dad left and I sat down exhaustedly at my computer.  Facebook, my window to the world.  I scrolled along looking at everyone's pictures with them and their Dads, saying the kind obligatory things about how great their Dad is.  It didn't take long to see the posts from my friends who were hurting.  This was their first year without their father, they were orphaned.  It seems a funny thing to call middle aged people "orphans" but I'm sure that is how they must feel. With parents you never really feel like a grown up, you are always someone "little boy" or "little girl", even if you are in your 60s and your parent is in their 80s.
    I read these posts, reading between the lines, feeling that aching pain of grief that these people were sharing.  This day that is meant to celebrate our fathers, turns a magnifying glass onto the pain of not having a father to celebrate with.  It came as a slap to my face, my realization.  People around me are in pain, in grief and I have my father.  I fought to keep my father with me, and yet I acted like today was like any other day with a little more pomp and circumstance.  How could I do this when I know how fragile life is?  I allowed life to disorient me away from what I need to concentrate on.  It does not matter if I have an authentic German food for Grace's class tomorrow.  It does not matter if my bathroom is clean (it's not by the way), none of the little things matter.  What matters is that I am blessed, and I need to start to remember this more often.  It should not take others pain of loss to remind me of my bounty.
    I will be more mindful, this I vow.  I must remember to count my blessings.  I am blessed.  I have a good husband, beautiful inside and out children, I have both of my parents who are in relatively good health, I have a home, I have heat and air conditioning, there is food in my cupboards, there is food in my refrigerator.  In a crisis I can count on both hand the amount of people that I could call on to help me and I know that each one of them would be here before I could hang up my telephone.  I am blessed, my cup runnth over.  I need to stop taking life for granted and begin to fully submerge myself in it.  My life is blessed and I need to take time to breath in my blessings.
    

When the Student is ready... the teacher will appear.

  When the student is ready, the teacher will appear... (and those teachers are not always who you think that they will be)

    How often do you grumble about the kids of today?  It's that famous line as old as history itself.  Each generation thinks that the one after them has a free ride.  We feel like we've paved the way for these self- important brats, forgetting about the generation before us, because they were not nearly as important in their contributions to the world as we are.  This feeling is untrue.  Every generation has a very different path that looks quite different from their parents path.  We tried to change things, and they will too, just differently than we did.  Their way is not better or worse, but different.

    I think that as adults many of us have this feeling that we are above our youngers.  "Respect your elders", but what about give everyone around you respect?  Oh the lessons that I have learned.

    When I began school (after my 26 year hiatus), I remember hearing a few more mature students stating that they were exhausted because they felt like the mothers to all these kids.  They said this in that exhausted, look at me I'm so wonderful tone.  It's that same tone I used when I was little and would be frantically be pushing my dolls, or barn cats around in strollers, when I was playing Mommy.  The first time I heard it, I kind of put my head to the side in that puzzled kind of a way.  I have kids at home, I don't want to adopt anyone else kid.  More than me not wanting to adopt those kids, they don't want adopted.  They are here experiencing new found freedom, many for the first time.  They want to consume the world, learn about life.  
    If you will recall, I tried to keep my fellow students at arms length.  This was more for self protection.  It's hard to be picked last if you don't ever participate in the picking process in the first place.  I wasn't discriminatory in shutting people out, I distanced everyone equally.  After a relatively short time these social service workers to be began removing the bricks from my emotional wall, one brick at a time.  These fellow students were of all ages, some slightly older than Grace.  
    When I look back at my first year in the books I am so glad that I allowed people in, and I feel privileged to have formed relationships with all the different aged people in the class.  Had I taken the approach of "knowing more" than these younger students, I would have denied myself of so much.   Taking the approach of placing myself higher seems so "unsocial workerish".  By thinking that as the elder I had so much more knowledge I would have denied myself the knowledge that my younger peers had to teach me.  We helped each other.  I shared with them what I knew (if I'm being honest it was not too much) and they shared their wealth of knowledge regarding technology and trends.  We were equal.  Being equals opens you up to so many more possibilities and is so freeing.  
    If you look at the picture above you will see three stunning girls.  The one in the middle I gave birth to, the two on the end I have the privilege of calling friends.  These two beautiful girls are my go to girls on style.  My teen girls have most certainly benefited by these wonderfully open, and emotionally generous girls.  One is my make up guru, one is my style guru, both experts in their fields, both give me street cred with my kids.  They make me laugh, and have rescued me on numerous occasions.  I took daily pictures of my style guru to help my one daughter change her style.

   I feel pretty blessed!

   

The Middle Aged Woman Who Lived In a Shoe Goes To School --- Again

     

    Do you remember your first day of kindergarten?  Mine was a long time ago, but I remember that feeling, "What if no one likes me?" I do remember my first day of high school.  I was terrified, what if I wasn't wearing the right clothes?  What if the big kids picked on me?  What if I don't do well? What if What if WHAT IF.  These same old "What if's" plagued me before my first day of college.
    "I'm an adult damn it, so what if no one likes me!"  This is what I told myself as I drove to the college and found my parking spot.  Maybe if I told myself this enough times I would begin to believe it.  Let's be honest everyone wants to be liked, everyone has a desire to fit in.  I would use my old camouflage techniques that I had honed throughout my entire public and secondary school career.  I worked harder to not be seen than I did on my actual work.  If trying to be invisible had been a school subject I would have been on the honour roll.  I worked hard to be invisible, and yet my heart fractured a little bit each day when none of my teachers noticed my existence.  I wanted to blend in, but I wanted them to see me, in other words I wanted to be acknowledged, but not humiliated.

   If you were ask any of my former teachers what they thought of me as a student, I can make you a million dollar bet that not a single one of them would even remember that they taught me.  As I look back on this it is actually quite heartbreaking.  I tried desperately not to call attention to myself, I  think that in retrospect I didn't think I was good enough, not smart enough, so it was better to be unseen, and unseen I was.  As a student I was quite unremarkable.  In adult life I carry this memory of wanting to be unseen and I fight with it.  I very desperately want to stand out, and yet I fear negative repercussions (what if no-one likes me, maybe this is something we never truly outgrow).  I work hard to look like I have my Sh@t together, to look like an upstanding member of society, and yet inside is that little insecure kid desperately wanting to be seen and frantically fighting for invisibility.  I lock my car and begin that walk that feels like thousands of miles from my car to the school.  Out front are people handing out t-shirts and grab bags.  They hand them out to everyone but me.  I debate asking for one, but think do I really want one?  Is it worth it if I have to ask?  I am surrounded by a sea of young faces, children.  There is the odd older face, but I suspect that they are faculty.  I walk past the welcoming crew, arranging myself under my invisibility cloak.  The funniest thing is that I am an overweight, middle aged woman with a limp... the invisibility cloak exists in my mind alone.  I pull my shoulders back, find my room, find my chair.  I sit there willing myself to be invisible.  I give that sickly smile to everyone that I make eye contact with.  I'm ok I can do this.

   At one point in the day we are told to split off into pairs.  I feel panic setting in.  This will be just like public school.  I will be the last to be picked.  I will have to pair up with a teacher and look like the loser I am.  Quietly this tall, beautiful blonde woman glides beside me "want to partner up?".  This tall blonde goddess saved me.  I played it cool, reserved (at least that is what I tried to do.  It was too early to let my freak flag fly).  I exhaled, and only then realized that I had been holding my breath. I had told myself that I could do this on my own, I didn't need anyone, but it turns out I was wrong.  I am too social, I can't just stick to myself.  The next day we had an orientation.  I felt like I stood out like a sore thumb.  I was old, overweight, and awkward.  I felt like the main character in a 1980's nerd comedy, only not the "Revenge of the Nerds", where the nerds win, but one the ones where the nerds were the butt of the cool kids jokes, the ones where the nerd ended up wearing their underpants band as a hat.  I tried to stand up extra tall, extra proud.  Through the crowd I saw that beautiful angel from the day before.  We sat together in the sea of strangers.  Soon other "mature students" began to sit with us at our round table. I felt my shoulders release, my breath exhale... I could do this.  Gradually I began to let my guard down, ever so slowly (still too early to let my freak flag fly).  In the end I survived my first week.  Only one girl called me an old lady, and it wasn't to my face, and it was in a "I just met the nicest old lady".  At the time it stung a bit (like the Indian Rubs we gave to each other in public school.  It burned a little but left no lasting scars).  Now it makes me laugh, I am a nice old lady, well relatively nice and relatively old-ish.

So there you have it kids, part two in the history books, part three still to come.

The Middle Aged Woman Who Lived in a Shoe Goes Back to School

    Once upon a time long ago there lived a simple country girl (who was a big city girl in her mind).  This country girl hated everything about her tiny stifling town (a town she chose to return to for all of the same reasons that she couldn't wait to leave).  She wanted to taste the world, smell that stale smog ride the subway at all hours of the night and to feel the pulse of the city in her veins...

     Many moons ago I went to university in Toronto, York University to be most specific.  I wanted to be a journalist, and then I wanted to be a psychologist.  It turns out what I really wanted to be was a party girl.  At York I learned immeasurable lessons, but sadly none of them were of the paper educational type.  Decades have passed and I have regretted my squandered education.  I regret nothing that brought me to this point in my life, because without going to York I would never have learned independence, never have met Christopher, would never have had my beautiful children and would never have felt so proud and humbled at my new chapter in life that I am walking in.  

    For decades I have thought about returning to school.  I made an attempt when Gabe was little and began taking courses online at Queens.  I was really proud of myself, and then Grace came along and life got to busy.  Three more kids followed, life happened and that regret simmered away on the back burner.  I threw myself into motherhood, never forgetting my regret at my squandered education.  I have never led my children to believe that they had an choice but to attend post secondary.  

     So now fast forward to last year.  Justin Trudeau made an announcement that students will not have to repay their student loans until they earn $20, 000 a year.  Kathleen Wynne announced free post secondary education.  There would be no better time to jump in.  Grace was going into grade 11, the twins were in grade 8 and Elly was in grade 4, I had no more excuses.  I kicked the dirt for a while, allowing apprehension to tie my hands, and finally I smarted up and in July I signed up to go to my local college.  I juggled the thoughts of university or college for a long time.  It was university that I had my eye on, but college would get me a degree and subsequently a job in two years.  So college it was.  I enrolled in the social service worker program at Loyalist College.

     I will admit to feeling very apprehensive.  At York there was this old lady in my psychology class who always had her hand up asking questions.  We all rolled our eyes at how stupid and annoying she was.  In retrospect that "stupid old lady" may very well have been 35, and she appreciated the gift that we were too young and brash to appreciate.  I vowed that I would not be that stupid old woman.  I would stick to the work, and get my job done.  The thought of being surrounded by children my children's age and slightly older and slightly younger was intimidating.  I would keep to myself.  I already have friends, I don't need more.  This was my job for the next 2 years.  I promised myself that I would make the Deans list (honestly I'm not sure that this even exists in college), the equivalent of honour roll.  I could do this.  I would be like The Little Engine That Could... I think I can, I think I can, I think I can.

Part two tomorrow

Here We Are!

     Do you ever run into an old friend that you lost touch with.  At first you are so excited to see them, your mind flashes back to the very best days that you spent with them.  As they approach, you feel that apprehension because you are embarrassed because you have not seen them in so long?  That is kind of what this blog is.  I am still very much "The Middle Aged Woman Who Lived In A Shoe", we still live in the same shoe, and yet my life is not the same.  I have so much that I want to share and stories that should be told, and yet there is that little pause, that slight apprehension.  What if you don't like me anymore?  What if I don't have anything interesting to say?

     Quite often people ask me why I don't write my blog anymore.  I usually tell them that I no longer had time to write, and that is a partially true statement.  Life with a 17 year old, two almost 14 year olds and a 9 year old is busy.  The truth is that I cycled out of that stage.  What I mean by that, is that my blogs were always about being a "mommy".  I wrote about what I knew.  I wrote about our daily adventures.  If you look at the first picture, they were all so small when I began this little writing adventure.  The truth is that I did not know what to write.  I no longer took those fun little trips with the kids.  We no longer sat down and did crafts.  Preteens are a new frontier.  They value their privacy.  They are not impressed if you write stories about them without their knowledge and strict permission.  I didn't write, because I didn't feel like I had anything interesting to share, and so I stopped. 

     I make no promises that I will be as diligent in this "My Brave New Chapter", I will write as I can, I will not write to write, but rather write when I have something to say.  The truth is that I miss the writing.  I miss talking to you, I miss sharing my life and all of the little peals of wisdom that I have picked up along the way.  Life can get a little crazy around these parts, time is not always generous with me.  

    My big story to share with you is that at the ripe old age of 46 I enrolled in college, but that's another story.  For today I will just tell you that I'm busy in this crazy life of mine, but that I miss you.  I'm glad I bumped into you and the past is the past and I want to renew our friendship.  Thank you for joining me on this "My Brave New Chapter".