Author: VievesVine

writer, blogger, columnist

Angel

On By VievesVineIn Everyday Life2 Comments

I started down the stairs when the sound of voices paused my progress.

I knew our friend Lloyd had stopped by for coffee with Gary, but their banter didn’t come from the kitchen. Like the steam floating above their hot mugs, conversation wafted up from the family room. 

I made like a “firefly on a wall” and tuned in.

A tinkling of bells trilled, stopped, then sang again. The melody repeated once, twice, four times. I pictured the lights on our Christmas tree switching on and off.

“It’s a magic wand,” I heard my husband say.

“Wowwww,” said Lloyd. “That’s so cool. Just like magic. Let me try it again.”

“My granddaughters love it,” said Gary.

Sounded like the grands weren’t the only ones who got a kick out of our magic Christmas (remote control) wand.

“Love your tree,” said Lloyd.

“The kids made a lot of the ornaments when they were young,” said Gary. 

I heard my husband point out three cardboard star ornaments—two blue, one gold—each holding a kindergarten photo of one of our children.

I never thought Gary paid much attention to our Christmas trees or the ornaments. I didn’t realize it until that moment, but all these years, I had imagined he just put up with the tradition. 

I leaned against the stair post on the landing and listened to the two men admire the ornaments.

“Hey,” said Lloyd, “someone took some time to stitch these.”

“Gen cross-stitched those—back when I was in Vet school.”

In my mind’s eye, I saw the green and white-checked cat, a cherub holding a star, and a sparse-needled Christmas tree—a few of the many ornaments I had cross-stitched while Gary studied.

The men’s voices stirred me from my reverie. 

“Look up there,” Gary said, “she’s the most special of them all.”

What? She? Who? I strained my ears to hear.

“That angel has topped our tree since our first married Christmas,” said Gary.

“Ohhh,” said Lloyd. “She’s beautiful.”

I, too, saw her golden hair, oval green eyes, and the metallic gold fabric wings that extend from the back of her flowing ivory gown, trimmed in glittery organza.

In the early years of our marriage, over the days leading up to Christmas, our angel cast hope upon us. But she spent her first four Christmas days alone in Alabama, one in a tiny apartment and three in our upsized mobile home. 

How lonely she must have been on the top of that unlit tree while we opened gifts beneath trees in West Virginia with our families. 

Our angel liked our first house, the one we bought when Gary took a job in Martinsburg. The tiny, white Cape Cod complemented her shine. She added charm to the built-in bookshelves on either side of the living room fireplace and to the corner cabinets in the dining room.

Our angel followed us without complaint when we relocated to a minuscule apartment in Bridgeport. We moved from there to a small red brick house a few streets away, and then to the “little brown house” while we looked for something roomier for our growing family.

From the tops of our many trees in the foyer of our rambling “this ole house,” our angel presided over our youngest child’s first Christmas. She survived the earthquakes of a few tree-climbing cats. She smiled over the merry laughter from more than a few “day before the day before” (Christmas) parties.

I don’t remember where we bought her, but I know why. I grew up topping my childhood trees with an angel.

We chose our angel because she felt safe, comfortable—at least to me, and from what I heard downstairs that morning, my husband feels the same way.

The berries

On By VievesVineIn Everyday Life, Friends & Family2 Comments

After taking a dip in the lake on a warm July evening, I took Louisa’s hand, and we hiked up to our castle on the hill. Our castle is our home away from home, though some mistake it for a cabin.

When my three-year-old grand and I reached the smooth fieldstone steps, we bumped into Bartholomew. Bartholomew is our resident toad. He lives in his own castle, deep in the cracks between the rocks that form a wall along the back of ours.

“Look, Louisa, there’s Bartholomew,” I said. “He’s come out to say ‘Hello’ to you.”

Louisa crouched low and tilted her head forward to have a better look. 

“Can I pat him?” she asked.

“Sure.”

The toddler reached out and lightly stroked the toad’s bumpy back with her index finger.

Bartholomew didn’t hop away until Louisa caressed his leathery skin a second time. 

My baby grand giggled when I said, “Wow, Louisa, Bartholomew thinks you’re the berries!”

I shared this story with some friends in South Carolina and discovered they had never heard the expression: “You’re the berries.”

“You’re the berries is the same as telling someone she is the bee’s knees or the bomb.com or, more simply put, the best,” I said. 

If you look up the phrase, experts claim it’s slang from the 1920s, not tied to any particular region in the U.S.  It says the same thing about “the bee’s knees.” 

I beg to differ. 

For one, when I related the story of Louisa and Bartholomew to my WV friends, they all knew exactly what “you’re the berries” meant.

For two, the 1920s took place a long, long time before I came into the world, and I am more than familiar with “you’re the berries” and “the bee’s knees.”

Old sayings? Probably. Slang they may be, but both phrases appear to be common in the Mid-Atlantic region. In the South, not so much.

While living in Alabama, Gary and I raised our eyebrows when a neighbor offered to “carry” us in her car to the store. 

It was also in Alabama that we heard news reporters say, “A cutting occurred last night around midnight.” “Cutting” as in someone had stabbed (or knifed) someone else.

In Charleston, SC, when I said, “Will you all be joining us at the courts?” a woman replied, “You all? You all? You must be from the north.”

True Southerners say, “Y’all.” 

OK. Fake Southerners also say, “Y’all” (bless their hearts), but it’s easy to tell genuine from imitation when it comes to dialect.

West Virginians face the problem of being stuck in between. Northerners consider us Southerners, and Southerners deem us Northerners. 

But I know I am a “you all” and not a “y’all.”

Midwesterners also have unique sayings. My hair ties are their hair binders. I would rather when they have their druthers. When I see a baby, I say, “Oh, how cute.” Midwesterners say, “Oh, for cute!”

The Western part of the U.S. claims its own slang to fame. For “all talk and no action,” they say, “All hat and no cattle.” People who talk too much are “jawing,” and a “tenderfoot” is someone in training.

Westerners say, “Don’t squat with your spurs on” and “Never ask a barber if you need a haircut.”

Food for thought.

Born in South Carolina, my grand toddler is a true Southerner with West Virginia in her blood. At three, she worked out her own understanding of “You’re the berries.” 

While eating breakfast the morning after she met our resident toad, Louisa said, “Vieve, will we see Bartholomew today?”

“I hope so,” I said, “but he doesn’t usually come out this early.”

At that, Louisa smiled at her mom and dad, and said, “Bartholomew thinks I’m the fruit!”

The stuff that makes us whole

On By VievesVineIn Throwback2 Comments

(Throwback re-post by request)

Funny how just a smell, taste, sight, sound, or a place can land us in the middle of a memory.

The scent of homemade bread puts me back at the table in my grandmother’s kitchen. At the sight of a child clanging a triangle, I’m a second grader again in Miss Hatfield’s music class holding out my fist for her to rap my knuckles with a ruler—probably for talking.

Whenever I hear Three Dog Night belt, “Jeremiah was a bullfrog,” I’m back dancing with my friends on the hardwood floor of the school gymnasium. The smell of a fresh, plowed field sends me racing between rows of tall tobacco plants across the street from our house in Kentucky, the soft mud squishing beneath my bare feet.

But I’m carried back to two special moments every time I play the third hole on the golf course at the Bridgeport Country Club, and whenever I hear the 1960s hit “Moon River.”

The summer the doctors added the word “terminal” to his name, my father danced over the green on Number Three. It was one of those days the sun lures golfers away from their day jobs to play hooky on the long, lush fairways. Number Three is also a par three, and my drive that afternoon dropped in the sand trap just below the green. Social golfer that I am, I was thrilled to land a ball anywhere near the hole.

Dad chipped up onto the green and waited for me, his hand ready to pull the flag. I laughed when I saw him, hat askew, fingers tight around the pole. I grabbed my sand wedge and trudged over to the beach. I hoped to only whiff the shot once, but I made contact on my first try, hitting sand first, then the ball.

I climbed out of the trap as my ball hit the short grass with a soft thud. I stepped onto the green just in time to see it roll into the cup. Dad howled, kicked up his heels, and danced around the flag. Then he skipped over to me, looped his arm through mine, and swung me ‘round and ‘round across the green.

A few months later, I danced one final time with my dad. The last leaf sashayed to a ground gone cold. Women wrinkled their brows over their first ponderings of a fat turkey stuffed at both ends. Men pulled blaze orange off their cellar hooks and prepared their guns in time to inaugurate buck season. Children, eager eyes toward December, sharpened their pencils for letters to Santa.

Me? I was with my dad, just the two of us. We were taking a walk around the house when he looked up into my eyes and said, “You’re not supposed to be taller than me.”

It was true. Cancer had reduced his frame, once just shy of six feet, by pounding him into a 5’4” cell. But he smiled, slipped his right arm around my waist and clutched my shoulder for support with his left.

“Let’s dance,” he said.

Dad embraced me, pressed his cheek next to mine, and hummed the bars of Moon River. Our steps were small and cautious, but he did not let the disease that stole away his strength take the lead. My father held on to me, and I held on to the moment.

We live in the present, as we should, but our memories are gifts. They warm us, lift us, and instruct us. Memories are the insurance that keeps special moments and the people we hold dear alive within us. The past is filled with the stuff that makes us whole.

Travel tales

On By VievesVineIn Places, travel2 Comments

Gary and I strapped on life jackets for our Snake River raft ride in the Grand Tetons. Kal, our guide, directed four women who were traveling together to one side of the raft. 

An older gentleman and what looked to be his 50-ish year-old son plopped down on the opposite side, leaving no room for us to climb aboard. 

“Uhh,” said Kal, “could you please move across so this couple can get in?”

The men hesitated but complied.

Once seated, I looked over to the dad and said, “Hi, where are you from?”

Unsmiling, the man said, “I’m from California. He’s from Arizona. Please, don’t talk during the ride. I want to enjoy nature.”

Hmmm. 

We were embarking on a 3.5-hour tour along one of the most beautiful stretches in the United States with a guy who didn’t like people.

For me, the joys of traveling include the people I meet along the way. 

If Gary and I had not engaged in conversation with Alexander, our breakfast server at Ole Faithful Inn in Yellowstone, we would have been lost, literally.

According to the map, Biscuit Basin was the starting point for our hike to Mystic Falls, but Alexander said, “It’s still closed after the hydrothermal explosion last summer.”

He said, “It’s a prettier hike if you go this way,” and gave us directions.

We reciprocated with information about hiking in West Virginia and rafting on the Upper and Lower New River.   

“I’m going to make that trip,” said our breakfast server-turned trail guide.  

At the overlook for the Grand Prismatic hot spring, a young woman used an extendable phone tripod to take pics and snapped one for us as well. 

“She’s a keeper,” I told her boyfriend, “You need to stick with her.”

“Hopefully forever,” he said. 

I paid the favor forward at the Grand Canyon of Yellowstone by taking photos for others. A Chinese family did the same for us.  

We didn’t know it then, but that sealed our friendship. As Gary and I looped our way back up the trail from the Lower Falls, someone said, “Here…here. You sit here.”

From a bench in the corner of a switchback, the Chinese grandfather beckoned us, laughing, “Here…sit here. I am worried about you.”

We sat. 

His English was limited. Our Chinese? Nonexistent. But together we enjoyed the majesty all around us.

Over a fireside chat, a New Jersey couple enlightened us about Wisecars, a company that saved them half on their car rental. They also said, “Eat at the Snow Lodge. It keeps its chef and a full menu while other spots prepare for hibernation.”

A National Park Service employee said she and her husband left upstate New York five years ago to work and live in Yellowstone year-round. In winter, she snowmobiles 33 miles to work and 33 miles back and loves every minute of it. 

Then, we landed on a raft below the Grand Tetons with a grumpy old man. Embarrassed, his son offered to take photos of us whenever I attempted selfies. 

The river ebbed and flowed beneath the towering beauty of the Grand Tetons. The dad said not a word—not even to his son. Gary and I talked with the women on the other side of the boat.

From the raft’s middle, our guide pointed out two bald eagles and shared stories about the interesting wildlife he’s encountered. We asked Kal where he had grown up (Idaho) and if he stays in Wyoming in winter (he does). 

When we docked, Gary and I were the last to climb out. We thanked Kal for a lovely ride.

“Hey, I’m sorry for that awkward start,” he said. “Thanks so much for talking and asking questions. That’s what it’s all about. That guy should have booked a solitary ride.”

“No problem,” we said.

For us, the grumpy old man was just another travel tale.

Keyword: Artificial

On By VievesVineIn Uncategorized1 Comment

My laptop took its final bow. When I replaced it, an enthusiastic young clerk made sure everything I needed from the old model had transferred to the new one.

“Let me show you all of the new features and our latest technology,” he said.

“OK,” I said.

“Check this out,” he went on. “If you tap this button, AI will correct your spelling and grammar. It can also compose your sentences. If you want, you can let it write your emails for you….”

He was on a roll, but I politely interrupted his passionate tutorial. I couldn’t let him waste another breath.

“I appreciate you sharing this information, but before you go any further, I need to tell you something,” I said.

“Great. I’d love to hear it,” he said.

“I am a writer, and I will never, as in ever, ask AI to write anything for me. The second I switch it on, I turn off my voice,” I said.

The young man’s eyes grew wide, and his jaw went slack.

“You see,” I said, “not only writers, but everyone possesses a unique voice. If we allow AI to write for us, what a boring society we’ll become.”

I could have added “ordinary” and “fake” and “average” and “apathetic.”

AI is a polarizing subject. A great many have embraced it—too quickly, I think. Others fear it, for good reason. 

Adults, teenagers, and children engage in conversations with ChatGPT rather than talking with friends, family, coaches, and teachers. Television ads for the AI bot encourage individuals to look to it for advice on workouts, cooking, relationships—you name it. 

Kids turn to the chatbot for homework, and it becomes their trusted confidante.  Lawsuits have been filed by parents who lost their children. ChatGPT discouraged one young man from talking with his parents and offered to write a suicide note for him. 

Colleges and universities are struggling to find software programs that detect AI content in students’ work. So far, human judgment appears to be the most dependable tool.

I liken the insurgence of AI to the advent of calculators. Before calculators, students were required to show their work on math homework and exams—every single step.

When calculators became more available, school administrators banned them from the classroom. Teachers said students needed to exercise their minds, use what they learned, and work out math problems using their brains.

That the administrators and teachers were correct mattered not. 

By the mid-1970s, the calculator had weaseled its way through school doors. Next thing we knew, the boards of education supplied every math class with calculators for student use. 

I wonder how many people reading this can solve 7th-grade math problems in their heads or figure out restaurant tips without reaching for their phone’s calculator.

When you rest, you rust, both physically and mentally.

AI is a calculator for all subjects. When we turn to it, we’re choosing convenience over intellect. Use it enough, and our brainpower will fade; we’ll become AI-dependent.

AI was a hot topic during the recent United Nations (UN) General Assembly. Of AI, UN Secretary-General António Guterres said, “…innovation must serve humanity—not undermine it,” and “…autonomous systems must never decide who lives.”

Guterres and I agree.

One positive step would be to place the same limits on AI that we do for alcohol—kids should have no access to it until they turn 21. The wait will allow our young people to develop their own minds and hopefully the confidence to continue to rely on that brainpower. 

After hearing me out, the young man at the computer store was at a loss for words. I stood to leave, thanked him for his time, and said, “Don’t lose your voice.”

AI stands for Artificial Intelligence. Keyword: Artificial.

11:11

On By VievesVineIn Commentary, Everyday Life1 Comment

Consider 11:11 AM. Consider 11:11 PM. 

When I take a random glance at a clock, 11:11 is the time I see more than any other. Maybe, just maybe, 11:11 sticks easily in my head, making me believe my eyes land on it more.

I don’t think so. 

Why would 11:11 capture my attention any more than 3:33 or 2:22 or 5:55 or 10:10?

This 11:11 thing has gone on for years—and I do mean years. It’s happened so many times that, when I look at a clock or a watch and see 11:11, I look away, shake it off, and move on with my day or night—fast. 

If Gary is within earshot on those occasions, I say, “Make sure you check the time when I die. I bet I’ll take my last breath at 11:11.” 

He waves me away and laughs. He does that a lot.

If his eyes fell on 11:11 as often as my eyes do, he, too, might wonder if the number/time carries some kind of personal significance.

I recently checked the time as I readied for lunch date, and 11:11 tried stared me down.

I said to myself, “Self, I’ve got to get to the heart of this matter. What is the deal with 11:11?”

Most Americans recognize 11/11 (no AM or PM) as Armistice Day or Veterans Day or Remembrance Day.  At least I hope they do.

Friday, November 11, 1918, the armistice was signed that put an end to World War I. The cessation of combat took place the “eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month.”

Those are some pretty significant 11s if you ask me. Maybe I’m drawn to 11:11 to remind me to appreciate what took place all those years ago, but even I know that’s a stretch.

Those who don’t immediately tie 11/11 to Veterans Day may say, “Are you talking about 9/11?”

I am not. That’s a day we all want to, but should never, forget.

After years of being haunted by 11:11—the time, I typed the following question into the search bar of my web browser: “What is the significance of 11:11 AM and 11:11 PM?”

I expected a lesson on how to read a clock or instructions asking me to be more specific.

Instead, a wealth of too much information populated the page. The Farmer’s Almanac popped up and mentioned Veterans Day, but it went on to say the time 11:11 is believed to bring good luck.

The article said, “You have probably heard the famous saying, ‘Make a wish when the clock shows 11:11!’ To some, this means more than a fun statement.”

Good luck? Make a wish?

Had I ever heard “the famous saying,” I would have spent a lot less time cringing and trying to erase those numbers from my mind.  Good luck tied to 11:11 was a brand-new concept for me.

I went on to learn that numerologists think November 11 at 11:11 is the luckiest wish-granting day and time of the year. And 11:11 AM or PM on any given day is considered the strongest time to make a wish and set a world-changing goal. 

Additional web pages took the symbolism of 11:11 deeper, as in way deep. The “special” time, both AM and PM, is also seen as “a powerful symbol of synchronicity, awakening, and alignment with the universe.”

When we catch 11:11 on the clock, we’re supposed to be mindful of our thoughts and intentions. Some contend that my 11:11 sightings are positive messages from the universe.

Hmmm…I’m not so sure. 

As far as I can tell, I’ve been wasting wishes on first stars and birthday candles when I should have been wishing on clocks. 

Who knew?

Mrs. Murphy

On By VievesVineIn Commentary, Everyday Life, Friends & Family, Places1 Comment

Some people come into our lives and stay for a while. Others dance and flicker among us for a brief moment, like a candle’s flame.

How long people have known us has little to do with the impression they leave on us. Sometimes, we don’t realize the extent of that imprint until much later.

That’s how it is for me with Mrs. Murphy.

Every now and then, Mrs. Murphy rises from my heart and into my consciousness. I can’t say what triggers the appearance of those memories, but I welcome them all the same.

She was the Music Director at the First Baptist Church of my childhood in southern West Virginia. I picture her tall with a solid frame, but then I was small and skinny.

Her close-cropped dark hair held a bit of wave or curl. Maybe a perm? She wore black framed eyeglasses with upswept corners (in cat-eye fashion)—or so, I thought.

Mrs. Murphy’s responsibilities included directing all choirs, Cherub, Youth, and Adult.

“Responsibilities.” I wrote that word with hesitancy. Mrs. Murphy exhibited so much joy in what she did that it never occurred to me it was part of a job.

She even made certain the kids’ choirs had holiday parties, Halloween, Easter, and Christmas.

When my friends and I were promoted to Youth Choir, we walked to the church every Wednesday after school for practice in the big sanctuary with an inclined floor.

Mrs. Murphy got a workout at those practices. She spent the first 15 minutes running up and down the middle aisle in her chunky heels, trying to get the boys to stop rolling under the pews and take their places in the choir loft.

“Now, boys, come out from under there,” she said with firm gentleness.

Then, she clapped her hands to coax a little stronger, “Come along, now, boys. It’s time to get started.”

My brother Donald, two years my junior, was born with a baritone, man-sized voice. He took his place in front of the church with the Cherub Choir, in his white robe and ginormous red bow, and belted “Jesus Loves Me” like a miniature Johnny Cash with a little added thunder. The rest of the cherubs were reduced to a tweet here and a tweet there.

I was a cherub alumnus by then. Donald’s “Jesus Loves Me” roar sent our brother John and me into titters, followed by giggles until we tumbled from the pew and tried to smother our howls into the deep red carpet. We hiccupped rising chortles, but that didn’t keep tears from laughing all the way down our cheeks.

Mrs. Murphy remained unfazed.

On Sunday mornings when the little ones took front and center, her hands and arms sang with the notes as she led her Cherub charges. The louder Donald’s voice, the bigger her smile.

When thoughts of Mrs. Murphy came to me last week, it occurred to me that I knew very little about this woman I admired. We lost touch after I moved away in 6th grade.

I emailed my very first best friend, Stilts, whose parents called her Nancy, but I never would.

“…I’ve been thinking about Mrs. Murphy, our choir director. I loved her! Do you know what happened to her? I can’t recall her first name. Ugh.”

Stilts wrote back, “…Her name was Florence Murphy and her husband, Eugene…they were the most fabulous couple at church and as neighbors.”

Lucky Stilts, to have had Mrs. Murphy for a neighbor.

I don’t know if Mrs. Murphy enjoyed gardening, if she had a dog, or liked to cook. I don’t know if she had children or how many. I don’t recall the color of her eyes.

I do know she brought music to the hearts of many. And she loved children.

Maybe, for me, that was enough.

Standing up

On By VievesVineIn Commentary5 Comments

The issues of freedom of speech and protecting women’s sports have put the national spotlight on WV, Harrison County in particular. It’s impossible to explore one without alluding to the other.

Judge Thomas Bedell recently issued a preliminary injunction against the Harrison County Board of Education, “preventing it and its schools from punishing athletes for future free speech.”

I’ll fill you in.

Five middle school girls’ track athletes protested against competing with a biological male in the shotput event. The protest went viral after former University of Kentucky swimmer Riley Gaines praised their courage. Individuals and groups who support the “Save Women’s Sports” (SWS) campaign also lauded the athletes.

Parents filed a lawsuit to protect free speech after their daughters’ coach enforced an “unwritten” rule: athletes who intentionally “scratch” an event would not be allowed to compete in that event at the next meet.

The words “unwritten rule” triggered the problem. In what professional arena is a rule not documented—on paper—a serious rule, a rule not to be broken? Most believe an unwritten rule bends easily—imposed in some cases, but not others.

Another key issue revolves around the true definition of “scratch” in track and field. The NCAA written rule is consistent with what I’ve witnessed in past middle and high school track competitions:

“A Scratch, for any reason, is a voluntary abandonment of an event by the participant prior to the staging of the event. … the staging of the event is the point in time where participants are escorted to, or allowed to be at, the site of the event.”

Therefore, the five athletes did not scratch. They did not elect to take themselves out of the shotput competition “prior to the event.”

They were present. Their names were called. They entered the circle—shotput in hand—and silently walked away without attempting a throw.

The girls did not scratch. They exercised their constitutional right to free speech by protesting an issue that affects them and the futures of female athletes near and far.

Based on the clarification of “scratch,” there was no basis for employing a disciplinary rule, much less an undocumented regulation. The word “unwritten” negates any avenues for justification of the “rule.”

On the other hand, if one reviews the current Presidential administration’s proposed changes to Title IX, the young women’s brave protest is justified.

Edits to the 1972 law to protect equal opportunities for women in sports include replacing the word “sex” with “gender identity.” If that happens, the new Title IX would be based on how a person identifies rather than his biological truth at birth.

This problem does not exist for biological women who wish to identify as men. They do not attempt to enter the male sports arena because they know they cannot physically compete with men. Thus, the reason why males who wish to identify as women must draw the line at competing in women’s sports.

Biological women fought for years for the passage and implementation of Title IX. With one flourish of a pen, a preposterous new definition of women will effectively erase the intent of that law.

As Judge Bedell stated, the case at hand is about freedom of speech. If the court’s decision does not support our valuable constitutional right to be heard, there is reason for serious concern.

As for the issue of protecting women’s sports, the courts have not been kind, e.g., the Fourth Circuit Court of Appeals (VA) blocking WV’s “Save Women’s Sports Act.”

A double standard exists in this climate that claims to champion women. If courts continue to turn their backs on reality, on saving women’s sports, freedom of speech becomes even more essential.

It is up to all biologically female athletes to be as courageous as five middle schoolers and stand up for truth by standing down.

Boys and girls

On By VievesVineIn Commentary1 Comment

A few weeks ago, I sat cozy and warm in the driver’s seat and watched my husband Gary secure our Christmas tree to the roof in pouring rain.

I said to myself, “Self, be ye thankful for this man.”

Maybe some women don’t mind stretching over a car roof while the rain pelts down. I am not one of them.

Oh, I could do it if I had to, but Gary is around, he knows the job is all his, and he never—as in ever—complains.

In the same way, I’m the one who cleans our house and takes care of the laundry. My husband is capable of and has performed both chores, but that area is usually my territory.

I’m not ashamed to say these things, nor am I demeaning my female sisterhood. I believe women are as intelligent as men. Among a host of professions, more than a few women are excellent doctors, attorneys, and business executives

Note: I said, “as intelligent as,” not “more intelligent than.” There is a difference.

It’s a “Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus” kind of thing. The best-selling book by John Gray focuses on the differences between men and women and how it is important that each respect the other.

It was published in 1992, but those differences have not changed—not one bit. Still, mainstream media and various groups would like for us to think otherwise. They wish to alter the various, inherent traits that distinguish males and females.

True, a time existed when women were passed over in favor of men at school and in the workplace. The rewards from the battle to give women equality in those areas have been well worth the fight.

But now the push has taken a step in the wrong direction. The media and political factions appear determined to unman our men.

A great many television shows, movies, and commercials depict intelligent savvy women dominating dimwitted men. If we believe what we see, the percentage of intelligent savvy women far surpasses that of bright brainy men.

The number of action films featuring women heroines who are physically far superior to men is laughable. Evidence exists that women possibly fought as gladiators. However, the accounts show they did not participate on the same brutal level as men. Women fighters were novelty acts.

Intellectually, neither sex rises above the other. But men are physically stronger than women.

The latter fact explains the problem with trans women competing against biological women. Despite being a trans woman, Olympic gold medalist Bruce—now Caitlyn—Jenner strongly opposes biological boys and men taking part in women’s sports.

Jenner knows drugs cannot eliminate testosterone to the degree that would keep trans women from having a huge physical advantage. Interestingly, no debate exists the other way around. Trans men don’t even try to compete against biological men.

Hmmm…

But I digress.

Mainstream media portrays men’s physical strength as a detriment and paints them as emotionally and intellectually incompetent. More and more, people are accepting this charade as fact. It’s chipping away at the confidence of our boys and eroding mutual respect between the sexes.

God gave males and females different gifts that go hand-in-hand to keep life in balance. One quick example in many: without a man, a woman cannot conceive.

Gary appreciates the way I plan and organize family and friend events. He is happy for me to do the shopping for his clothes and shoes. He knows I like to drive and doesn’t mind relaxing at shotgun.

I am thankful that my husband cuts the grass, climbs up on the roof for maintenance checks, and wields a leaf blower like he’s fighting enemies in a warzone.

And I have to admit, he’s handy to have around to tackle stubborn jar lids.

A friend of mine put it best: “Empowering women should not come at the expense of men.”

Men and women are different and equally valuable.

Words from my father

On By VievesVineIn Friends & Family3 Comments

On Memorial Day, I visited my father’s grave at the National Cemetery. I hadn’t been there in a long while, and I wasn’t certain I could find it on my own.

Cemeteries aren’t my first choice to visit when I want to pay tribute or find solace. I feel my dad every time I step onto a tennis court. He’s everywhere I look when I find my way to Camp Mountaineer in Morgantown. He’s ever-present when I visit the Baptist Temple or wander up to Morris Park, both on the east side of Fairmont.

But no matter where I am, I hear him.

The tone of his voice when he said, “Genny Ann” or, on occasion, “Genevieve Ann” and his advice and stories and songs remain with me.

Dad often sang to my brothers and me. The songs he gave us, he also sang to his grandchildren. Now, we sing them to our baby grands. Like “McNamara’s Band”:

“Oh, my name is McNamara I’m the leader of the band

although we’re few in numbers we’re the finest in the land…

and Hennessy Yennessy toodles the flute and music is somethin’ grand

a credit to old Ireland is McNamara’s Band….”

And “Tora lora lora”:

“Over in Killarney

Many years ago…

“Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, Toora-loor-ra-li,

“Too-ra-loor-ra-loo-ral, it’s an Irish Lullaby….”

And, of course, “Hail West Virginia”:

“It’s West Virginia, it’s West Virginia

The Pride of every Mountaineer….”

Dad would chuckle and lower his voice to a murmur when he recited:

“One dark night in the pale moonlight,

two dead soldiers got up to fight.

Back-to-back, they faced each other,

drew their swords, and shot each other.”

He reserved one song just for me, a tune from the early 1900s that I doubt anyone else recognizes.

“Oh, Genevieve, sweet Genevieve

the days may come, the days may go

but still the hands of memory weave

The days of long ago….”

The many Carolines whose fathers sing “Sweet Caroline” understand what “Sweet Genevieve” means to me.

Whenever my brothers and I went out with friends, Dad said, “Don’t take any wooden nickels.” It took a while, but I finally realized that was his way of issuing a witty warning: “Pay attention. Don’t let people fool you.”

We lost every battle for a later curfew. Dad always said, “Nothing good happens after midnight.” When we slept past 8 AM, he cautioned, “You’re sleeping your life away.” He was right–on both counts

A few times I came through the door in a rage—angry and complaining about having been treated unfairly by a friend or a teacher or a supervisor.

“What we really need to do is pray for her (or him),” said Dad.

“Pray for her? Pray for her? You pray for her,” I recall telling him once.

I didn’t get it then, but I do now. I still hear Dad repeating those words. His calm voice is a lifetime reminder of how to turn negative thoughts into positive activity.

When I arrived at the National Cemetery, a plan took shape in my mind. I drove up the American flag-lined hill as the reds, whites, and blues waved to me in welcome. I made the loop at the top and headed down to park and start my search.

I said to myself, “Self, just start out along this row, and check names three rows back.”

Halfway down the perfectly manicured green lawn, my father’s name in block lettering brought me to a halt. Below his name, his Navy credentials, and the necessary dates, I read the familiar inscription:

“When it’s too tough for everyone else, it’s just right for me.”

Dad said those words often as he helped my brothers and me learn how to persevere through challenging times in our lives. I heard him then; I hear him now.