Friday, November 30, 2018

"Like a Continental Soldier," by Laura Montgomery

If you DON'T have an ad blocker running, you will see a graphic link to the book next:

Don't  feel left out, in case you DO have an ad blocker running (as I do)! Here is a link to the book for you, after a picture of a chicken:   CHIKENS R GUD FOR U!!!


(Because you ad-free people didn't get a graphic)

A variation on 'In the country of the blind, the one-eyed man is king,' is that brand of lovely escapist literature (and movies) about being in possession of advanced technology among primitives. There are LOTS of ways to make this happen, from time warps via messing around with superstrings, as in the 1632 universe, or Lord Kalvan of Otherwhen,  to landing on a primitive planet, as in a million movies and Twilight Zone episodes, to all of the post-apocalyptic stories, regardless of the nature of the apocalypse.  

Now, while I PERSONALLY would favor being provided with lots of weapons, ammo, and magic healing devices if I were to be dumped in a pre-industrial society, what I prefer in reading is how advanced technology is re-introduced, and it seems a lot of people agree with me. I take the 1632 for evidence of that; not only do we have the BODACIOUSLY large number of novels and nonfiction books published in that universe, there is also the Grantville Gazette, which is, I believe, up to Issue #80. They never thought it would go that high, and I support THAT statement by pointing out that they started by numbering the Gazette with Roman numerals.

And thus, the series that Laura Montgomery has brought us, "Waking Late," is something I enjoy tremendously. She manages to insert time travelers into the story without having to have time travel, which I really appreciate, since I think time travel stories are too full of malarkey to be much fun. Her time travelers are colonists and soldiers who went into long-term suspended animation in order to make a lengthy space passage to a new planet. Unfortunately (details are in the first book), they didn't make it.

At the time of the three books, the descendants of the first people awake have devolved into a ferociously tyrannical monarchy, and most of those who are not rulers are serfs or slaves; they may not be called that, but that is their existence. Labor saving technology has not been introduced, and thus muscle power, either human or human directed, is what brings in the crops.

I speak now as one who was seduced at age 18 by the myth that 'living off the land' was a good thing; it's not. The best thing that science and engineering ever did for us was to free us from back-breaking, continuous labor needed to feed ourselves. While it required legislation to legally free the slaves in this country and others, it is technology that made that a viable alternative.

The society of First Landing, with the brutal monarchy in charge, REQUIRES slave labor to exist. Their ability to control the population is dependent on the absence of the slaves to fight back, and that's what the protagonist Gilead brings. There is minimal use of spaceman technology; only a few communicators exist. So, how is the conflict created and resolved?

This is where we MUST give proper homage to the author, and to her diligence in doing her research. I was fortunate to visit with a gunsmith who specializes in working on antique firearms. He walked me through the evolution, handing me examples of each, from matchlock, to flintlock, to percussion cap rifles. It's the NEXT step that makes the difference, and Montgomery was faithful in her reproduction of the Spencer rifle, introduced in our timeline just before the start of the Civil War. Her account of some of the battles in the book mirror some of the conflicts in that war, when the rebel forces were limited to muskets loaded with ramrods, and the northern troops armed with fast-firing Spencers. The fact that she is a SPACE LAWYER ( although not a lawyer in SP-A-A-CE!), and not any kind of fire-arm expert, makes the reading all the more delicious.

I reviewed this on Amazon as well. The link will be posted down in the comments; 'helpful' votes are appreciated.

Peace be on your household.


Saturday, November 24, 2018

The Value of Euphemisms

"Dog Bite It!"
That was something my grandmother used to say when she was mildly vexed. It came up mostly in circumstances where I had skinned my knee, bumped my head, etc,

"Je-HOS-a-phat!"
I have a very dim memory of hearing that as well, on occasions calling for an expression of dismay. Maybe it wasn't her saying it. Maybe  it was coming from the radio. Don't recall it that clearly.

"Muscle Shoals!"
That came from my grandfather, on occasions when 'neither "Dog Bite It" nor "Je-HOS-a-phat!" would work. I don't remember the particulars behind this utterance, but when I asked my grandmother about it, she said that there had been a big dam in Muscle Shoals. So, when circumstances arose that he wished to express his displeasure about, instead of saying, you know,  he determined to limit himself to 'Muscle Shoals."

"Tabby!" 


This is an expletive that I shared with my dear friend and co-counselor, Mrs. Catherine Reese Holman, when we encountered the worst situations of grief. As long-service middle school counselors, we spent a LOT of time working with students and families in some truly wretched circumstances. A tabby cat is  a Domestic Short Hair; the acronym is DSH, which also happens to be the acronym for three rude and crude words one hears from those suffering from a lack of vocabulary appropriate for the situation. Miz Catherine was Raised Right, a term perhaps not familiar to people outside the South; among other things, it means you don't use the lips you kiss your mama with, to spew vulgarity.
However, there were times when we were leaving a funeral service, or the house of a good and kind family struck by a fatal illness, or any one of a hundred things that will break the heart of anyone with a lick of compassion, and we NEEDED to have some mechanism to express our anger, grief, and helplessness. And it was on those occasions that we called on the Domestic Short Hair to rescue us: "TABBY!" It helped, a little.

There are a LOT of euphemisms being tossed around today, and I can tell from context that they give no relief at all to the user. They are tossed into conversation the way you toss salt on your grits, automatically, but with far less satisfaction at the result. You have some words which were initially meant to represent potty words; those I don't usually notice. The class I really find myself wincing at are the words used as substitutes for references to the Almighty. Unfortunately, except for geezers like myself, nobody appears to know that "Jeez!" is a euphemism for "Jesus"; that "Gee!" in all it's variations is a substitute for "God"; that "Dang" and "Darn" mean "Damn;" that "Heck" means "Hell." I suppose they have little incentive to learn the origin of the terms, since it's commonplace to find the original word in regular language, and even then, there is no importance attached to them. They have become sounds utterly devoid of content.

Well, I will only do what I can do. I'm going to trot out my creativity, and dig up some phrases I used  way back when, and perhaps I will inspire my children and grandchildren to use words like Papa does:

I hope to kiss a duck!
Shoot me with a washtub!
Turn blue and wear a purple hat!
Dog livers!

Peace be on your household.

Sunday, November 11, 2018

Today is Veteran's Day. Welcome Back!

Today is Veteran's Day.

OldNFO has a beautiful moving tribute here.

I wish to honor my grandfather, William Jordan Paulette. He was born on August 3, 1899, and ran away from home to join the Army. I looked for, but cannot find, the only picture I have of him in uniform. His job was to take care of the mules, and the picture is of a squad of young men and a single grizzled sergeant standing at horse stable. Small generic French mutt is included in the photograph.

He landed in France on this day, 100 years ago, the day the Armistice was signed. He told me that when Bill Paulette landed, that was one too many Bills in France, so Kaiser Bill left.

He told me about catching the Spanish Influenza, and going to the hospital. I would have been a child, or at most a teenager, at the time of the conversation, so I had no idea how awful that epidemic was, and so I didn't know the significance of that; but he said he would wake up in the morning, to find that the two boys on either side of him had died in the night, and their bodies had been taken away while he slept.

While he was away, purportedly at risk from warfare, his much-loved older sister Cora was safe at home. She also caught the flu, and died, while he was away.

In a way, the war did kill him, but it took 57 years to do it. It was in the army that he took up the cigarette habit, and my main memory of him is sitting in the porch swing,  smoking unfiltered Pall Malls. He developed emphysema, and had his first heart attack in 1962. He had his second heart attack in March of 1975, while I was in the Army in Germany. Because he was in loco parentis to me (I had no other father for the first five years of my life), the Red Cross arranged for me to fly back on emergency leave, and I spent several days visiting him in the hospital until his condition had stabilized enough that I returned to duty. He had his third heart attack on the first day of spring, March 20, 1975, and he passed that night, with his adored wife Bessie holding his hand, and whispering to him of everyone he loved, while he whispered, 'help me, Bo' (his pet name for her).

He was not the first veteran in my family; I know that one of my multi-great grandfathers, Mr. Norris, was enlisted in an element of the Confederate Army, but I know nothing of his service.

My grandfather was, however, the first link in a chain of service that has extended unbroken to this present day.

Generation Two covered WWII and Korea. My father was in the Army Air Corps during WWII; I have a picture of him taken in 1944 in his uniform, wearing his A1C stripes and his qualification badge as a door gunner for a B17. We still have that badge, a bullet with wings.

My father had four other brothers, two of whom saw service in WWII. My uncle Cecil was a career Navy man; uncle Andrew Lee was a Marine with experience on Okinawa.

Uncle Bill Andy, William Jordan Paulette's only son, was in the Air Force in Korea in the early 1950s. I do not know the dates of his service, but he was born August 21, 1931, so it's conceivable that his time was during the Korean Conflict.

The third generation was the Viet Nam era, and we had several serve, My first cousins Dennis , Uncle Cecil's son, flew helicopters in Viet Nam. Andrew Lee's son Andy, a few years older than me, was drafted and also went to Viet Nam. My brother-in-law, Bob Kimsey, was a generator operator/repairman in the Georgia Army National Guard. I was an Army medic in Germany. My cousin Barry was in Special Forces, but I know nothing else of his duty.

And generation four is represented by my son, SGT Eli Jordan Patterson, US Army (ret) with service in Afghanistan, and my son-in-law Sam Blackstone, US Navy. There are more, including his cousin Ben Tillman, a Citadel graduate like his father, but my son is the only one I have pictures of.

The other day, I watched a documentary, in which retired Army General Petraus said that only 1% of our citizens had served in the military. I have a hard time believing that number is so small, given the folks I have been privileged to be related to.

Be that as it may, to all those named here and the millions more not mentioned: Happy Veteran's Day, and WELCOME BACK!
1922 Bill and Bessie Paulette

The following are the pictures I have of some of the veterans mentioned in this blog. Obviously, not all mentioned are here.



Patterson Boys, 1941
J R Patterson, Sr, 1944

My Basic Training Company, 1972

Better days in uniform, 1975





Papa Pat, Kenneth and Alicia, and
SGT Eli Jordan Patterson, US ARMY (ret) 


Peace be on your household.

Friday, November 9, 2018

Appropriate Fear, plus "Escort Duty" by Tom Rogneby

If you are running an ad blocker, you won't see this:


but you CAN see this: Escort Duty, by Tom Rogneby

This particular work is so different from his other writing, and frankly, from just about anything else I read, that I can't just jump into the review. Got to digress wildly, first.
And besides that, this is something I wanted to say that was too long for a Facebook post. Also, as an experiment, I'm gonna use a naming convention that isn't a part of my tradition today, just to see if it seems right to do so.

"The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom,
And the knowledge of the Holy One is understanding."
(Proverbs 9:10, NASB)

There have been times in my life, when I have allowed myself to get sucked into an argument with someone who had either had a bad church experience, or just developed anger on their own hook for some other reason.

They tell me that they reject G-d, or that they reject the G-d of the Old Testament, or they reject something something something, because they want/believe in/need a G-d of love. They tell me that they cannot believe in / accept/ tolerate the idea of a G-d they must fear.

I've never had a good answer for them. Sure, some of them were clearly just being argumentative, but some may have legitimately been struggling with the concept. If you have been abused or neglected by a father figure, it makes it AWFULLY hard to approach a Father G-d under the very best of circumstances. And we very rarely have those circumstances.

Well, this morning, chatting with my soon-to-be-14 year old son Kenneth over the last piece of home made bread, I had a couple of moments of clarity.

Kenneth brought me one himself. He has been my son for just a little over half his life, and before he came to me, he had lived almost his entire life in a house full of women. And I discovered that more often than not, when I told him to do something, he would ignore me, or at best, comply very slowly.

At first, I was surprised; then I was angry. But, before I did something stupid, I allowed my training to take over. HA! All that college DID do something for me besides...whatever else it did...

I realized that, in terms of learning theory, Kenneth had no history of ready compliance, and no history of compliance with a n instruction form a male. He had lived in a house of high energy females, who were busy making sure that people got fed and clothed and had a roof over their heads, and if one of them told him to do something, he could usually ignore it, and they would move on to something else. (I am not assigning any blame; you try being a single parent under those circumstances and tell me what you get.) Once I realized that, the solution was simple.

I sat down with Kenneth, and told him I understood that he wasn't used to the rules of the Patterson House, but now they were in effect. I let him know that he did not have a LOT of people telling him what to do, only Papa Pat and Mom, but that FIRST TIME OBEDIENCE was expected. I knew that was going to be a change for him, but I was going to help him get on track.

I told him that every time he was given an instruction by a valid authority, he was to carry it out right away. If he didn't, he would get a spanking. However, as soon as he could learn first-time obedience, and go for a week without a spanking, he would get a reward. The reward he chose was money, so I taped a dollar bill in a plastic bag to the refrigerator.

I asked Kenneth "How many spankings do you think it will take before you learn first time obedience?"
He thought about it briefly, then replied happily, "About a hundred."
This was rather shocking to me, but I took him at his word, and we went about the program.

It took him two spankings. That's it. That was seven years ago, and I think I have had to spank him twice since then, and now, spankings aren't even a consideration. We talk, we negotiate, we set contracts, we both have expectations to be met. We have gained a huge amount of family wisdom and understanding.
But it started with a bit of fear. And that's the insight that my son Kenneth gave me.

Once I had that, I got the other, much easier part: it doesn't say that the fear of the Lord is is the end of wisdom; it doesn't say that the fear of the Lord is the sum of wisdom; it just says it's the beginning.

So now, if ever I get into one of those discussion /arguments again, at least I'll have SOMETHING to say. Not thinking it's gonna answer all of life's questions (it ain't 42, for one thing), but it might provide food for thought.

And now, for the review of Tom Rogneby's  collection of short stories, "Escort Duty."

I should have known I was in for something unusual when the graphic of the book cover only took up the bottom half of the page in my Kindle Library. Wasn't really expecting THIS, though; six short stories, in WILDLY divergent settings. Admittedly, I already knew Rogneby was a author with an unusual ability to write about different worlds, and make them believable. My first exposure was to his book of the Lost Legion, Via Serica, in 2015. That book was so god, I literally got lost in doing research to supplement my appreciation of the text, so much so that I forgot to write the review until two years later. Bad, Bad Reviewer! No Cookie!

I've also got a huge affection for his Daddy Bear stories. If you haven't discovered the loveliness of a mashup of suburban life and medieval magic, then stop reading this now, and go getTales of the Minivandians. I love the stories for their own sake, BUT I also used them to drown out my screams and whimpers during more than one long session in the dentist's chair, as beautiful women stabbed me in the face with sharp pointy things.

The following is the sum total of my Amazon review:

"Escort Duty," the first and longest of the stories in the collection, could very well have been set in Daddy Bear's universe. It's the story of a powerful and powerfully determined princess, determined to achieve her goal without understanding all the details and sacrifices that have to be made; and it's the story of a not-so-glamorous dude on a horse, who has certain skills and talents, and who has pledged his life to see her safely home. Bad things happen. Will good things come of that?

"Grandma's Kitchen" is the next story, and I still don't know whether to be warmed and comforted at the example of the sweetness of a sanctuary, created by a grandmother's love; or to be horrified at the prospect of a reincarnation to make good the things we did wrong in this life. For some, the concept of reincarnation may not be terrifying but for me? Brrrrr. HOWEVER! This is a fresh take, and Rogneby has the ability to make you feel the warmth of a Grandma's kitchen, whatever it represents.

"Plaza of Pain" is over the top. It's so over the top, it ALMOST aggravated me, until I realized it was deliberately over-stating every cliche of smash-em bop-em love-em shoot-em fiction, and then turning up the amp to 11. And that's when it got FUNNY.

"Sacrifice" is beautifully moving. Rogneby takes a minor liberty with time, altogether excusable, given the cast of characters, and ties together two foundational stories of sacrifice and redemption. This is one you need to spend some time with.

"Victory Garden" is a sad, post-apocalyptic tale of a guy just trying to get by, and they won't let him. Figuratively, they have strapped his hands down and covered him with lice, and now they hit him when he wiggles. The society he describes must have closely resembled that found in the earliest years of the USSR, but is made more poignant because the level of prosperity in the United States didn't require anyone to riot because they were starving. We just did it to ourselves because we could.

"The War," the last selection in the book, concerns the aftermath of a series of terrorist attacks in the United States. It's a very, very unpleasant scenario, but in my opinion, there really isn't anything we currently have in place that will prevent it. The United States is a haven for people who want a better life, and if they can walk into the country, so can bad actors. And we really have been at peace for so long that it seems it will never end, but that's simply not the case. Rogneby merely takes incidents that occur regularly in, for example, Israel, and has them take place here. At best, we repsond in the way he describes.

This was a tough book for me to review, largely because it covers so much ground. Regardless, it's a GREAT read, and I strongly recommend it.

Peace be on your household.



Thursday, November 8, 2018

"Been There, Done That (April #10)" by Mackey Chandler

For those of you without an ad blocker:


And for those with ad blockers running, a link to the book.

And now, it's story time, with Papa Pat! Gather around me, O my best-beloved, and I will share of my treasure of experience, that your life may be long in the land and your refrigerators full of food.

Lo, long, long these many years ago, long before YOUR time, O my best-beloved, when Mr. Carter lived in the White House -
- What's that, Dougie? You remember Mr Carter in the White House? Well, yes you do, Dougie, for you and I are nearly of an age.

Well, back in that day -
-What is it this time, Dougie? You remember Mr Ford and Mr Nixon and Mr Johnson, too? Yes, Dougie, but that isn't the time of which I speak.
-What, Dougie? You remember Mr Kennedy and Mr. Eisenhower? You're PUSHING it, Dougie!  Now unless you need to go to the bathroom, sit over there and don't interrupt me again!

Now, as I was saying, there came a time back in that day when your Papa Pat was appointed as a Youth Shaman, to oversee the spiritual welfare and training of copious youths, ranging from 12 years old to 18 years old. And yea and verily, Papa Pat was sorely perplexed in those time to reach out to the dingbats and knuckleheads with whom he was entrusted. (For, you must know,  O my best beloved, he was not yet Papa Pat in those days, but merely Pat.)

And it came to pass that on one evening he desired greatly to teach them of responsibility and leadership. And he chose Jimmy, the most knuckleheaded dingbat of the group as his demonstrator. 

Papa Pat brought forth a black robe, with the appearance of silk (but it was really paper; he had graduated from college in it); and he bade knuckleheaded dingbat Jimmy to stand forth in front of the group, and he said,

"Jimmy, I am ordaining you as the Head Shaman over all the people. And they shall come to you when they need comfort; and they shall come to you when they need advice; and they shall come to you to perform their weddings and sacred ceremonies and funerals. And in time of war, they shall come to you and ask for your counsel."

And behold, as Papa Pat was saying these things, he took the black robe, and he laid it on Jimmy's shoulders, and he placed Jimmy's arms in the sleeves, and he hung it over Jimmy's frame, and he fastened the robe on Jimmy, and as he was speaking his last words, he knelt down in front of the knuckleheaded dingbat Jimmy, and fastened the hooks of the robe at the bottom,

And he remained kneeling in front of knuckleheaded dingbat Jimmy, and he looked up at Jimmy's face, well aware of the silence that had come over the group, and he saw the slightest hint of tears in Jimmy's eyes.

And, as he continued to kneel, he said to Jimmy, "How did that make you feel?"
And Jimmy replied, in a small voice, "Like I might be worth something, for once."
And then Papa Pat said "And what would you do if someone came to attack your people?"
And young, knuckleheaded dingbat Jimmy tightened his face, and gritted his teeth, and said in a resolute voice, "I'd FIGHT 'em!"

And this, O my best beloved, is the end of that story. No, Dougie, I am not going to tell another today. Now, y'all go someplace else and try to stay out of trouble; I have work to do.

Which is writing the Amazon review for this book, and MOST of what follows is in that review, which can be found here. Vote helpful!

What is the relevance of this (true!) story to Mackey Chandler's excellent work, 'Neither Here Nor There'?
Just this: knuckleheaded dingbats like Jimmy do not, and could not, exist in the society that April and her companions have developed. There is no room for 'spare people.' Young folks, like knuckleheaded dingbat Jimmy, are not shoved into a classroom and expected to behave for 8 hours a day, then released to their own devices until they are compelled to show up again the next morning. Instead, there is PLENTY of meaningful work, and no one cares that they are young. What matters is whether or not they are competent. And they ALWAYS, ALWAYS have a chance to feel like they are worth something. Not just for once, either. Their contributions are vital to the well-running society.

It's NOT like sending kindergartners off to the coal mine; there is plenty of time for recreation, and education isn't neglected, either. However, if someone has a useful contribution to make, they are allowed to make it, and the money is theirs. There are various ways in which their rights may be protected, should a parent decide to take their income for themselves; however, they don't just jump in and rip kiddies from their mothers' arms, either.

It's a good time to be in this world. There is plenty of work to be done; anyone who wants to can find work, but no one has to grind themselves to death just to pay for food and shelter for the day.

Much of this can be attributed to April's own experience. She had a dreadfully hard time being taken seriously when she started out, and whether it was her intent to prevent that sort of foolishness from happening again, that has been the result of her efforts.

Okay, this post has great symbolic value for me. It's NOT a very good review of the book; I only touched upon one CENTRAL aspect of the plot. There is MUCH more going on. HOWEVER! It's the first book review I have been able to write since September 25. and I'm not going to let the perfect be the enemy of the completed.

Peace be on your household.

Wednesday, November 7, 2018

A Missed Opportunity, and a Resolution

"Bind them on your fingers;
Write them on the tablet of your heart.
Say to wisdom, “You are my sister,”
And call understanding your intimate friend;"
(Proverbs 7:3-4, NASB)

Unlike the fairy stories, we don't just stumble on a magical device that solves all of our problems. We have to WORK at getting the wisdom and understanding we need when the dragon descends on our village and burns it to the ground. And we have to start LONG before he gets there.

I cannot find my copy of 'The Hobbit' in this catastrophe of a bookcase, laden with everything from textbooks to Torgersen. So, would somebody who can find their copy locate the short speech the archer makes to his arrow, right before he kills Smaug, and post it in the comments? I just want to make the point that his act wasn't a spur-of-the-moment event.

Just part of my reason to love e-books....


Umm, this morning, I was SUPPOSED to meet an obligation to my 13 year-old son Kenneth. However, I was in a good bit of pain last night, and didn't fall asleep until the early morning hours, and so I blew it off. Kenneth is going to be 14 in a week; I don't have THAT many parenting hours left.

Who knows how long he will be agreeable? He is, right now.

This is one of those tough times associated with the otherwise delightful task of being a 65-year-old parent to a middle-schooler. On the whole, it's a decided advantage to have the wisdom and experience I have gathered over three and a half decades of being a parent. Sometimes, though, as was the case this morning, Decrepit shows up and whispers temptation in my ear.

There WAS a solution I didn't take  because I got uppity, though, and refused to give in. That was to take another pain pill; I was well below the limit. I've got this stupid competition going with chronic pain, though, and I demand that I beat it every single time. This time, it cost me one of those hours.

So I resolve: do what I gotta do in order to sleep; and if I can't sleep, then stay awake the next morning. It won't be the first time I've survived a sleepless night, not by a long shot.

I need time with my kids more than I need to sleep in.

Peace be on your household.

Tuesday, November 6, 2018

An Open Letter to Middle School Cheerleading Coaches

 With maybe a small edit or two, this is a copy of the email I sent to the cheer coaches for the  Mill Creek Middle School Wildcats, in Woodstock, GA (Cultural Center of the Universe). 
My 12 year-old 7th grade daughter, Alicia Ann, is a cheerleader.

Last night, while I was proud of MANY things in the performance of the cheerleaders at the game, there were two items that turned ME into a cheerleader for your program.

1. The first person I saw when I stepped into the gym last night was a young lady with Down's Syndrome in her cheerleader regalia.  That was good enough for me, right there. I don't know this young lady's name, and I have no idea about her 'cheerleader' skill set (as the parent of a cheerleader, I don't even know what that skill set might be) but I do know this: her life will always include a memory of her role as a cheerleader for the Mill Creek Wildcats. And every cheerleader on that squad will be changed, by having her incorporated by the group.

2. I very QUICKLY noticed that during slack times, the cheerleaders did NOT lollygag around, giggling and whispering to each other. Instead, they stood in a posture I learned to call 'parade rest' in the Army. Two ranks of young ladies, feet shoulder-width apart, arms bent, hands behind their backs; they stood respectfully and watched the game.
I thought their routines were performed with enthusiasm and skill, but NOTHING expressed to me their discipline more than watching them hold their position minute after minute. I realized I wanted to get a picture of this, but alas; I was too slow. They had already started to move into their next routine by the time I could get my phone to take a picture:
Just breaking into the next routine...

As I told Alicia Ann on the way home, the cheerleader-specific skills that she is learning may not matter at all in 10 years. However, the quality of her character, which is being formed by her coaches (among others), WILL matter. You are giving her a great appreciation for accepting people on the basis of who they are, and not for what they can't do; you are instilling in her an appreciation for disciplined behavior that she will never forget, and will always profit by having.

So, after 35 years as a football-baseball-basketball-ballet-scouting-soccer-karate-retired parent, at age 65 I am finally part of #cheerparentlife.  It doesn't hurt as badly as I thought it might. (I must see if I still have the seat-pad for hard bleachers I carried in my truck, though.)

Thanks for giving my Alicia Ann and her team-mates a better perspective on what matters most.

Papa Pat Patterson

And that's it. I sent this to them this morning, in the tiny interval between putting the pot roast into the crock pot, and going out to vote. And suddenly, it's almost 4:00, and I don't know if I am going to have time to bake the bread I promised. I'll give it a try.

Peace be on your household.