Out of this world

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Maybe you’re an astronaut wannabe, someone whose dream has always been to fly into outer space. 

Maybe you want to do more than ride in a spaceship. You want to jog on the moon, Jupiter, Venus, or Mars.

But maybe, just maybe, time traveled faster than you ever dreamed, too fast to make those goals happen.

Don’t worry. You can go—when you’re dead.

But you need to make your “travel” plans sooner rather than later and have saved a whole lotta cash. 

Dead, you ask? 

Yes, dead, as in no longer walking, talking, and breathing here on Earth. Oh, and there is one additional stipulation: your remains must be cremated.

Then, and only then, can you—your ashes to be specific—fly into space. 

You can arrange to have your cremated remains launched into the cosmos—for a price. The cost ranges between $3500.00 and $13,000.00, depending on the type of service you choose for your final sendoff. 

Starting at the basement bargain price of $3500.00, you can find flights that allow your remains to experience zero gravity. They’re flown into space and then back to Earth. 

Or—for $5000—you could choose to have your remains orbit the Earth in a spacecraft.

On the downside, either of those choices leaves your breathing self an additional and difficult decision to make. What to do with the ashes after they return from such an amazing space odyssey?  What final resting place could top experiencing zero-gravity or orbiting the Earth?

If making difficult decisions is not your thing, up your budget to say $12,500.00 or $13,000.00. That kind of cash opens the door to a couple of otherworldly options.

  1. It will pay for the Moon to be the final resting place for your ashes.
  2. Or you can choose for your cremated remains to be sent on a permanent celestial voyage into deep space and the solar system.

There are really and truly companies that provide these kinds of journeys for cremated remains. Look them up.

If I were interested in this kind of star-studded send-off—I assure you I am not, but if I were—I would ask for proof before I swiped my card. 

“How will you verify my ashes have experienced zero-gravity, orbited the Earth, are on the moon, or are soaring around deep space?”

There’s no way they could prove any of the above to me. By the time the space death-odyssey company could provide evidence of my astronomic trip, I would be but a pile of ashes.  

I suppose the company would have to swear to my alive self that it would give my relatives airtight proof that my wishes were observed. On the other hand, if my loved ones didn’t pay for the service, I doubt they would care all that much.

We could ask Eugene Shoemaker if he thinks his ashes are really on the moon. But wait, we can’t. He’s dead. 

While people have had their ashes sent to the moon using private companies, Shoemaker was the first and only person to date to have his ashes purposefully buried on the moon. His cremated remains were launched into space in 1998 with NASA’s Lunar Prospector. 

Shoemaker was the founder of astrogeology. His cremated remains experienced the zenith of interstellar travel on the Mercedes-Benz of spaceships to honor his work on impact craters.

Good for him, but not for me. I’m not an astronaut wannabe. 

The closest my remains might get to space travel is if Gary has a portion of me launched in a firework. I like fireworks, but I’m not too sure I’d want to be a firework.

I’ll think I’ll keep my final wishes down to Earth. My soul won’t give a hoot about where my ashes wind up.

No pain, no gain

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“No pain, no gain” is a familiar catchphrase. The words ring true for a variety of situations.

People who suffer injuries—burns, a broken arm, a ruptured Achilles tendon, and a strained hamstring—must work through the pain of physical therapy (PT) to heal. The pain of rehab intensifies for those dealing with spinal cord issues, amputations, and brain lesions. 

Two of my friends have undergone knee replacement surgery. One attacked the rehab like her life depended on it, and I believe her quality of life did depend on her “no pain, no gain” attitude. 

The other friend said the post-surgery exercises were painful. She scaled back on the PT workouts.

Guess which friend bounced back with better mobility than before? Which one continues to deal with knee issues?

Those are “master of the obvious” questions. No hints required.

Some give Jane Fonda credit for coining the “no pain, no gain” quote. 

In her early 1980s aerobic workout videos, Fonda used “no pain, no gain” and “feel the burn” to push her followers to keep going and finish strong.

Jane was correct. Sweat and pain are key to maintaining a fit body. Strenuous exercise is a good kind of pain that produces healthy results. 

Athletes endure the physical pain of competition to reach their goals. They train their minds away from the agony and focus on the rewards.

That’s how I approached childbirth, as the ultimate competition.

I said to myself, “Self, you are in labor, yes, but you are healthy, well, and strong.”  

I reminded myself that every pain carried me one step closer to the win. I fixed my attention on the prize I would hold in my arms.

It worked, for me at least.

 Still, “no pain, no gain” is not just a physical philosophy. 

Long before Jane Fonda, Benjamin Franklin said, “Industry need not wish, and he that lives upon hope will die fasting. There are no gains without pains.” 

In other words, “A star is not going to fall on your head and make you a star.” That’s what I told my children.

You may not believe the old “I walked 10 miles to school, uphill in snowstorms, at 6 AM every morning after feeding the chickens and milking the cows” story. But there is something to be said for fighting through adversity.

Students who want to make good grades must sacrifice play for study. They must be willing to struggle through difficult books and write papers on subjects that might not make sense to them at the time. 

During Gary’s journey to become a veterinarian, we discovered the true meaning of the word “essentials.”  He worked summers, I worked year-round, and we sold the non-essentials—class rings, wedding gown, etc.—to keep food in the fridge, gas in the car, and heat and air flowing in the house.  

What we gained in self-reliance was far greater than any pain we may have felt in parting with “stuff.”  Those lessons in prioritizing and solving problems came in handy when we started a family and opened a business. They continue to benefit us as we navigate our way through life.

Long before Jane Fonda and Benjamin Franklin, the Bible expressed “no pain, no gain” spiritual rewards throughout scripture.

James 1:2 says, “Count it all joy, my brothers, when you meet trials of various kinds, for you know that the testing of your faith produces steadfastness.”

2 Timothy 4:7 talks of fighting the good fight, finishing the race, and keeping the faith. 

Romans 8:18 says, “…the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that is to be revealed to us.”

Physical effort. Mental perseverance. Spiritual endurance. 

“No pain, no gain” is a colossal “catchphrase” that produces mighty results.

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?

Good dads, bad dads

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Everyone is talking about dads. That’s what people tend to do around Father’s Day.

I have no way of knowing if animals celebrate their dads. But animal dads and human dads have something in common: bad dads and good dads.

Male sea lions rank pretty low when it comes to fatherhood. Ohhhh, they are all about the mating process. But when the pups come along, their fathers ignore them.

Sea otter dads are even worse. They try to mate with females who are still taking care of pups they had with another suitor. A dad otter will also hold his own pup hostage to get Mom to give him food she’s found.

Sea bass dads are deceitful. They put on a show of protecting their eggs from predators, but if they get hungry, they will eat those eggs in the blink of an eye.

There are more than a few examples of animal dads who put themselves first and cannibalize their young. But I prefer to focus on the good guys.

Hardhead Catfish fathers are the antithesis of Sea Bass dads. A male Hardhead Catfish ensures his offspring’s safety by carrying them around in his mouth until the little ones can survive on their own. The dads never, as in ever, eat their young.

Consider the egret, the bird that stands tall and elegant along coastal waters and in marsh areas. Male egrets are positive thinkers. They start building a nest before they mate.

Maybe showing off his architectural skills is one way the male egret looks to impress the girl of his dreams. Once he’s won her heart, Dad continues to work with Mom on what is now “their” nest project. When the chicks arrive, he helps feed them.

Emperor penguin dads would probably hang out with egret dads, but due to environmental differences, they don’t often cross paths.

An Emperor penguin Dad sits on the prized egg for the two-month incubation time, while his main squeeze hunts for food. Once the baby arrives, the parents equally share the parenting responsibilities.

Golden lion tamarin dads (they look like reddish blonde monkeys) bond with their babies in a big way. Dad keeps the kids safe on his back and only gives them to Mom when it’s time to nurse. After the kids are weaned, Dad hand-feeds them.

A lot of people want to give the male seahorse Dad of the Year honors. Seahorses mate for life, and, in a huge twist, it’s the dad who carries and gives birth to the babies.

The Seahorse version of the “Birds and the Bees” goes something like this:

Dad woos Mom and likes to dance with her.

Mom and Dad mate.

Mom transfers her eggs to Dad.

Dad fertilizes the eggs and carries them until birth.

Quiz forthcoming.

While I love the Seahorse romance story, Common marmoset dads are impressive, too. They assist in the birth of their babies, help clean up the afterbirth, and share in all parental obligations.

One of the coolest dads around is the Red fox. He provides protection and food for mom and the kits so that they don’t have to leave the den. When the kits grow a tad, he plays with them.

Best of all, when the kits reach a certain age, Dad Red fox stops taking food to the den. Instead, he hides it in nearby places to teach them how to find food on their own. What a dad!

Human fathers, take note: don’t be sea lion, sea otter, or sea bass kinds of dads. Look to the egret, the Hardhead catfish, and the penguin. Learn from the lion tamarin, the marmoset, and the Red fox.

Prepare for your children. Protect them. Play with them. Teach them. Love them.

Be a good dad.

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.

May 24th

On By VievesVineIn Commentary, Everyday Life, Friends & Family2 Comments

May 24th is a special day, not just for Gary and me, but for our family. Had it not been for what took place on May 24th, our three children wouldn’t be here.

In the absence of our children, the spouses of our two married kids would be committed to someone else. Or perhaps they would be single.

Without our children’s unions, our baby grands would not be crawling and toddling around and making us laugh over and over and over again.

On this May 24th, Gary and I are at the point in our lives when scrolling through documents to find our birth year could cause a thumb sprain. We have lived under the same roof waaayyyy longer than we lived with our parents. Together, we’ve written an insignificant history that means something to us.

May 24th may have meaning to various people for different reasons. On May 24, 1883, the architectural wonder called the Brooklyn Bridge opened, traversing the East River to connect Brooklyn to Manhattan.

Today, more than 100,000 vehicles, 4,000 pedestrians, and 2600 bicycles cross the bridge daily. I wonder how many singles would not have become couples had the Brooklyn Bridge not been constructed.

Bob Dylan was born May 24,1941 in Duluth, Minnesota. Had both sets of his grandparents decided not to emigrate to the United States (in 1902 and 1905), his parents probably would not have found each other.

Had that hypothetical situation played out in real life, Robert Allen Zimmerman, who became Bob Dylan, would not have been born. The music that wasn’t written by the Dylan who did not exist would not have inspired numerous musical artists then or now.

From a fan’s standpoint, think of a world without “Blowin’ in the Wind,” “Mr. Tambourine Man,” “Like a Rolling Stone,” and “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door.”

On the flip side, R&B icon Tina Turner died at age 83 on May 24, 2023. The electric voice behind “What’s Love Got to Do with It,” “Private Dancer,” and “We Don’t Need Another Hero” entertained crowds for 65 years.

In 1938, on—you guessed it—May 24th, a patent was granted to Oklahoma lawyer/publisher Carl Magee for the first coin-operated parking meter. He came up with the idea after local merchants complained about the same cars monopolizing parking spaces day in and day out, causing low sales.

Magee was born on January 5, 1872, and I don’t wish it otherwise. But, gee, Magee, I wish he had invented something else.

On May 24th (1994), the four men responsible for bombing the World Trade Center were each sentenced to 240 years in prison. In 1830, the first line of the B&O Railroad opened.

Irish author William Trevor was born on May 24, 1928. Major League Baseball held its first night game in Cincinnati when the Reds beat the Phillies, 2-1 (1935).

Still, May 24th might just be another random day to you. But not to me.

May 24th is the day my dad walked me down the aisle and put my hand (and his trust) in Gary’s.

Gary could have let doubts, probably many, turn his car around. I could have swapped my heels for tennis shoes and sprinted out of the church.

But we showed up.

Had Gary and I not found our way to the Baptist Temple in Fairmont on that May 24th, 100 or so years ago, there would be no “us.”  Yes, there would still be a “he,” and I would be me. But trust me when I say, we’re much stronger, smarter, and way more fun as “we.”

Seventeen

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Seventeen. Seventeen pairs of shoes.

I counted.

I just cleaned out my closet. Then, I went straight for a Rubbermaid bin in the guest room closet.

I know what you’re thinking. I do.

You’re thinking: “Seventeen pairs of shoes? How in the world does someone keep 17 pairs of shoes she doesn’t need?”

For one, I needed almost all of them at one time. Or, I should say, I wore them. The definitions for the words “need” and “want” are, well, flexible.

For two, the shoes I kept in the Rubbermaid bin were made for dressy functions: weddings, dances, and cocktail parties. I donned them for a few special occasions and wound up holding onto the shoes for years, thinking I might reach for them again.

I probably will—now that they are no longer options.

For three, the two pairs I didn’t wear were flat sandals—the same brand, different colors. I bought them at a big sale.

As far as Gary is concerned, I purchase all shoes and clothing at big sales. The words “big” and “sale” are key to helping maintain a peaceful marriage.

The flat sandals no longer wasted in my closet were cute. Truly. But me wearing them was a pipe dream. My feet tolerate flat sandals about as well as they endure a heel over two inches.

I was not born for high heels. I never mastered the art of wearing them, only teetering and tottering in them.

My tricky Achilles tendon flares up when I wear thin-soled, flat shoes. I acquired my tricky Achilles tendon when my friend Carolyn and I signed up for a 10K.

We had not trained for the race, but that was OK. We said, “We will walk the course, not run.”

Ha. Ha. Ha, ha, ha.

As soon as the starter fired his gun, Carolyn and I took off—running. When one is competitive, she is kidding herself and everyone else by suggesting she might walk, rather than run, in any event called a race.

I remember the day well. The sun’s rays poured down from a cloudless blue sky. Hundreds of runners stretched and jogged in place, ready to complete.

The race began, and my friend and I ran side-by-side, pushing each other to attack the hills and coasting together on the downhill slopes.

We congratulated ourselves at the finish line. We had clocked great times. The next day, I whined to my husband in agony.

“The back of my foot is killing me,” I said.

“Gen, you’ve strained your Achilles tendon,” Gary said.

But I digress.

We were talking about shoes. Seventeen pairs, to be exact. I didn’t just toss them in the trash. I donated them.

Sandals, pumps, wedges, and clogs. For the record, tennis shoes were not included in the seventeen.

I bond with my athletic shoes in such a way that I find it difficult to part with them. Sadly, when I find a pair of sneakers that cuddle my feet in cushiony delight, the company alters the shoe.

The name remains the same, but the shoe is altogether different. In a blink, I’m back in the hunt for a new, perfect shoe.

Thus, the reason I wear running and tennis shoes beyond their maximum mileage limits.

Once grided smooth bottoms, missing eyelets, frayed laces, and holes tell me it’s time to replace them. In other words, I pretty much destroy any shoe that can be defined as a sneaker.

I might recycle them, but I would be embarrassed to donate them.

Love me. Hate me. Criticize me.

It matters not. My closet is bigger. My options are better—minus 17 pairs of shoes.

Challenge accepted

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As I walked to register #4 at a Home Goods store, the clerk offered to sign me up for a credit card.

“You’ll save an extra 30% on your purchases today if you apply for our credit card,” she said. “It will only take a minute to get approved.”

Tempting…but no.

“I appreciate the offer, but if I want to stay married. I must decline,” I said.

I went on to explain that my husband is not a fan of credit cards. Gary says companies make credit cards the same shape and size as gift cards to tempt us to believe we don’t have to pay them back.

I didn’t go into that with the clerk.

Instead, I said, “We’ve been married for at least 100 years. If I’m forced to choose between a credit card and my life history, I’ll hang on to my history.”

It’s one of the many reasons that divorce is not an option for us.

History.

Gary has been an integral part of my life and my family since we were 17 years old. If I cancel him or he cancels me, we’re wiping out a ton of years full of a lifetime of memories.

My youngest brother has zero recollection of life without Gary. He was six when Gary and I started dating.

Another reason divorce is not an option for me is, well, because I’m lazy.

No way am I up to the task of editing Gary out of 100 years of pictures. As for the myriad family photo albums we have scattered about, it took a lot of time to put those together.

Several years ago, I noticed the spine had separated on an album that belonged to my parents, and the photos inside were beginning to fade. My sister-in-law and I transferred the pictures onto quality, nonstick pages in a new album.

The job was time-consuming, but a labor of love. I’m happy we did it, but I don’t want to do it again, and I doubt my sister-in-law would help me this go around.

Selfishness is another reason I can’t get a credit card and give Gary a reason to divorce me.

Who else would remind me that where I stand or sit has no bearing on the outcomes of WVU basketball and football games?

Who else would say, “Sure,” when I tell him, “My seesta-girlfriends are coming to stay for the weekend?”

Who else would clean my car windows before I go on a road trip, make dinner when I work late, or watch an infant baby grand—change diapers, etc.—while I go to tennis practice?

Distribution of property after 100 years of marriage would be a big, as in HUGE problem—another reason we’ll just have to put up with each other.

Besides our cars and clothes (No way will Gary fight for my dresses), the rest would be a muddled mess. I’d probably claim everything belongs to me, and he would let me have it all.

Afterward, a load of guilt would take me prisoner. I don’t care to spend the rest of my life with a raincloud over my head.

The biggest reason my husband and I can’t spit up is a conversation that happened years ago—two weeks before our wedding day.

I was with an unnamed someone who knew us well.

“You shouldn’t marry Gary,” she said. “He has never dated anyone else. He will not be true to you.”

I laughed when I shared the exchange with my husband-to-be. We had turned twenty in April, ignored that tidbit of advice, and married in May.

On our most recent anniversary, Gary said, “I think we should send (she who will not be named) a thank you card.”

The note would read, “Challenge accepted.” 

No new credit cards for me.

Nickels

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My father often used the old expression, “I wish I had a nickel…” Probably for every time my brothers and I said, “How many more minutes till we get there.”  Or, maybe, for each time he successfully made April Fools out of us or beat us in basketball.

The saying may have evolved from the 1920s phrase: “A person would shoot you for a nickel.” That had something to do with an individual who did not value the life of another—meant as a joke, I hope.

“Squeezing a nickel” is an expression reserved for a Scrooge-like person who goes to extreme lengths to save money. “You can’t get blood from a turnip” is also an old way of saying someone is tight with money.

But we were discussing nickels, though I don’t know why. When was the last time you saw a nickel, held it in your hand, or used one to buy something? Anything?

It has been a while since I’ve taken a good look at the Thomas Jefferson coin. It would take a truckload of nickels to make any headway when shopping.

With inflation over the years, the expression got an upgrade. It became, “I wish I had a dollar for ….” But a dollar doesn’t add up to much either. One dollar doesn’t translate to more than a few miles in gas or even cover a bag of M&Ms.

Gone are, “I wish I had a nickel…” and “I wish I had a dollar…” from my everyday conversations. I’ve raised the ante to five dollars.

I wish I had five dollars for:

Every time I’ve misplaced my car keys.

Every time Gary says, “It’s the littlest of nothings.”

Every time I said, “Don’t be a WSB (Wimpy, Sissy, Baby),” to my children and kids I coached.

Every piece of junk email I delete. Better yet, I wish the senders had to pay me $5 to drop anything in my inbox.

I wish I had five dollars for:

Every circular in my mailbox.

Every time I said, “I’m counting to three.”

Every time my mother said, “I’m counting to three.”

Every time one of my brothers said, “I wish I had taken your advice.”

Every time WVU football and basketball teams have broken my heart.

Every time I told my children, “I am not your friend; I am your mom. And one day, you’ll be happy about that.”

By the way, they do seem to be happy about that.

I wish I had five dollars for:

Every time I said, “Use your inside voice.”

Every time someone says “bring” when the correct word is “take.”

Every time I fight the urge to go gray.

Every time I give my adult children unsolicited advice. Ugh.

Sometimes I just can’t help myself.

I could fill pages and pages with these five-dollar wishes, but filling them is like going to the mailbox hoping for the surprise BIG check that never comes.

From 1900 to the 1930s, a nickel bought a loaf of bread, a ride on a trolley, or a movie ticket. Back then, if you had a nickel, you could buy an ice cream cone, a hotdog, or a bottle of pop. A nickel covered a ride on the subway or the bus.

No wonder everyone wished they had a nickel. But not me. I wish I had five dollars—for every time I’ve wished I had five dollars.

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.